She Who Cannot Be Turned
by dammitharad
Summary: "The verse of Jean Prouvaire must not end." When Clementine buys an old book from a junk shop, she doesn't expect it to change her life forever. But sometimes, things are beyond a person's control, and the will of fate cannot be ignored. ProuvairexOC, AU.
1. The Book

**_Chapter One_**

**The Book**

The book was a collection of plays written by the Greek playwright Aeschylus. It was bound in soft brown leather, the author's name stamped on the spine in gold. The edges of the pages were yellowed with time, torn here and there, and the pages themselves were fragile and thin. The cover was hanging on by loose threads. It was clearly a well-loved and well-read book.

A quick scan of the first couple of pages told Clementine what she needed to know; it was a copy of the text in its original Ancient Greek. This pleased her; she was reading a degree in Classical Studies, and had taken up Ancient Greek when she was sixteen in the form of night classes. Her degree didn't require the language, but she took the advanced module that had been optional for her and always enjoyed reading texts in their original form.

Then there was the deal breaker: the book's obvious age. She had always had a fondness for old books – whilst she wasn't one for vandalising them herself, she'd always enjoyed old books that had been a bit battered by their previous owners out of affection. She'd been guilty of taking books home from her high school and college library that were more than a little scruffy and never returning them, simply because the fact they were so well-used made her smile.

This one felt like a real treasure. Clementine could smell the age of it and it felt delicate resting in her hands. She already had a copy of Aeschylus' plays at home, (two, in fact, one in English and one in Greek), but when she saw the price, she knew she couldn't put this book back on the shelf in this little backstreet junk shop. It was only a couple of euros, and she could already imagine it on her bookshelf back home in England, tucked in between her Aeschylus copies and her Euripides' compilation.

And then there was this odd tugging sensation in her chest that told her she absolutely had to purchase this book.

So she closed the book and bought it. Looking back on it, as she would years later, she would be amazed at how much a simple decision changed her life completely.

III

Clementine Evans had moved to France in January. Her course had the option of studying for six months in a foreign country, and her course happened to offer places in a French university.

Clementine knew she was fortunate in this respect; her grandmother had been French and she'd spent many summers in Normandy, which was where her family hailed from. She spoke French more or less fluently, which had given her an edge over the other students who'd chosen France and couldn't speak the language properly.

It had been a big change, moving to a completely foreign country, but at twenty years old Clementine had felt ready for it. In a way, it had felt like coming home. On top of that, the modules she was studying here were enjoyable and covered subjects she was interested in. It was nearing the end of May, now, and she would be returning home soon, something that both excited and saddened her in equal measures. She loved France, after all, but she loved England too.

On top of that, there was the fact she felt like something was binding her to France. She didn't understand what, but there had been something pulling her towards France the minute she had been told studying abroad was an option. It had never been something she'd considered, studying abroad. An interesting option for those who wanted to do it, of course, but it hadn't really crossed her mind.

But when she saw the option of France, particularly Paris, she knew she had to go there. Something in the back of her mind was screaming at her…_Go. You will not regret it._

So she had.

It was, in a lot of ways, similar to the way she didn't think she could have put that Aeschylus book back on the shelf if her life depended on it.

III

It was late at night, and she couldn't sleep. She felt restless, and the bed sheets felt like a furnace around her legs and waist. She would kick them off every few seconds, get too cold, and put them back on and subsequently get too hot. On top of that, her mind was working too fast, random thoughts flitting in and out of her head; it was hard to grasp one and cling onto it before it slipped away.

With a huff, she rolled onto her stomach and pressed her chin further into the pillow beneath her head. In front of her, the darkness swirled, pressed in on her. Another sigh escaped her lips as she reached out for the lamp on her bedside table and switched it on, flooding the room with a yellowy light and throwing shadows everywhere.

She sat up and drew her knees up to her chest, letting the bed sheets pool around her feet. Sleep was not going to come easy to her tonight, she could tell.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Aeschylus book sat on her cluttered desk. She had too many books on her one shelf and not enough motivation to rearrange them to put it away, so it had been left to languish on top of a box of biscuits and a textbook on the ancient Athenian legal system.

Before she could really process what her body was doing, her hand had reached out and pulled the book off the desk. She hadn't looked through it properly when she returned from her shopping trip; one of her flatmates, an incredibly chatty young girl named Élodie, had caught her as soon as she got through the door and engaged her in a two hour conversation about the boy she'd met in a coffee shop. Then she'd been reminded they were having a flat meal tonight, which they did once a week to catch up with each other, and she hadn't seen any way to get out of it. Once that was over, she'd had a shower and decided to do some necessary reading and work on one of her essays and the book had been completely forgotten.

But now it was in her hands, and chatty flatmates were in bed, and there was nothing to disturb her.

She opened the book at random and a slip of paper fell out. The paper was yellowed, like the pages of the rest of the book, and had been written on in an elegant, looping, cursive script.

It had been written in French, she noticed, and quickly translated it in her head.

_Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred; then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand, then another hundred. Then, when we have made many thousands, we will mix them all up so that we don't know, and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out how many kisses we have shared._

She was immediately transported back to her first year of university studying a module on Roman literature; the Catullus poem this was taken from had been one she'd had to study for her final exam. She hadn't been a massive fan of Catullus and hadn't particularly enjoyed that module, but it was ingrained firmly in her head, she feared forevermore.

She stared at the poem. A part of her was amused that someone had left it in there. Then her eyes drifted down to the text itself. It was _Prometheus Bound_ she was reading, she suspected, and whoever had owned this book at some point had scribbled in the margins. She compared the handwriting of these notes to that of the handwritten Catullus excerpt, and realised it was the same elegant script.

Furthermore, the notes in the margins had nothing to do with the text. The first note simply read: _Corinth, tonight, Grantaire_; the second was an ode to flowers that she didn't recognise. The author seemed to have a particular fondness for yellow roses.

She put the Catullus poem to one side and continued to thumb through the pages. She found more poems, scrawled in the margins and on more slips of paper, on everything from the plight of womankind to a sad-eyed kitten living in a bin to the way the stars twinkle at night, as well as quotes from more Catullus poems as well as some French poetry she recognised and some in what looked like Italian she couldn't understand. There were a few annotations on the plays themselves, some even written in Greek, and the occasional reminder – _Give book back to Combeferre_, said one, and _GET R TO APOLOGISE _was scrawled in huge block capitals across the opening scene of _Seven Against Thebes. _

Out of curiosity, she backtracked through the book to the first few pages. There it was, on the flyleaf, in the same cursive handwriting as the rest of the notes and scribbles: a name.

_J. Prouvaire_.

"J, Prouvaire," Clementine murmured, stroking her fingertips over the dried, slightly faded ink.

For some reason – one she didn't understand – she felt like weeping as she stared at his name. There was some sense of recognition in that name for her. But there was more to it than that. She had the overwhelming feeling that she was holding someone's life in her hands, and that frightened her. The pull that had brought her to Paris, the pull that had made her buy this book, was felt in her chest once more, and it was stronger and more undeniable than ever before.

**A/N: This is just a very small idea that popped into my head the other day and wouldn't go away, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it (I should be revising for exams, basically!). **

**A few things: I'm aware I'm quite vague about the university side of things, but it's not going to be massively vital to the story aside from it being the reason why she's there and why she'd buy a copy of Aeschylus in Ancient Greek (which I accept is a pretty big reason haha…)**

**The Catullus extract featured is from Catullus 5. You can find translations of it pretty easily on Google if anyone's interested in reading the full thing (like Clementine, I'm not a particularly big fan of Catullus). **

**Also, the title is a reference to Atropos, one of the Moirai or Fates of Greek mythology. She was the one who decided how people would die, and was the one who ended their lives.**

**Thanks for reading :) Reviews are of course always appreciated, whether it's good or bad!**


	2. The June Rebellion

**_Chapter Two_**

**The June Rebellion**

For the next few days, Clementine did little else but pore over the book.

She knew that there were countless other things she should have been doing. She should have been doing the follow up reading for her lectures, making revision cards, writing second drafts of essays – and even things that didn't involve university work, such as socialising and taking the time to phone her parents, should have taken priority over her study of this battered copy of Aeschylus' plays.

Nonetheless, Clementine found her time completely stolen by the book, or more accurately, the notes left behind inside it by one Jean Prouvaire.

She read it curled up in bed during both mornings and nights; she read it in the coffee shop on her university campus; she read it whilst waiting for lectures to begin; she read it in the kitchen whilst waiting for her food to cook; she had even read it whilst sat on the toilet. The book went everywhere with her, becoming her constant companion.

It wasn't long before her flatmates noticed her new friend. Élodie, the chatty one, immediately latched on to the unusual nature of Clementine's current obsession with zeal. This manifested itself in the form of constant questions on the book, the poetry within, and demanding to know _why _she was reading it so much. Then there was Sophie, a loudmouthed animal rights activist who never missed an opportunity to tease Clementine on the book and the romantic nature of its first owner's notes. Pauline, a philosophy student, was openly disdainful, wondering why Clementine would waste her time with such an old, tatty book when she could buy a brand new one.

The only flatmate who seemed to understand, to an extent, was Noémi. Noémi was a quiet, occasionally painfully shy girl from the Provence region of France, specifically Marseille. Although Clementine generally got on with her flat as a whole, the one she considered herself closest to was Noémi. Noémi was nineteen, a year younger than Clementine, but her quiet demeanour and willingness to let Clementine have time to herself had meant Clementine developed a fondness for her quite quickly. On top of that, they both shared interests, studying the same course, both being able to read Ancient Greek, and enjoying the same TV shows and films.

Noémi, for her part, was quite interested in the book. Not as much as Clementine, but enough to engage with Clementine's conversations about it. Noémi wasn't the first to ask about the book, but she was the first one that Clementine allowed to look at it.

"This man seems very sweet," Noémi concluded, twisting the end of her long, pale brown braid around her wrist. "His handwriting is lovely."

"He writes some very…sweet poetry," Clementine agreed, holding back a sigh. "There's one – let me see if I can find it – he wrote about a girl he saw at the market, and how blue her eyes were and how kind her smile was…I just thought his turn of phrase in it was gorgeous…"

It was in trying to find this poem for Noémi to read that Clementine found the first note about rebellion.

It was on a small square of paper, like the others, but it was not poetry, nor a reminder. It was one of the musings that Jean Prouvaire wrote from time to time, and Clementine wasn't sure how she'd missed it.

It said:

_Everyday talk grows more towards another revolution. We do not know whether it will be this year, the next, or maybe the year after that; but we know it will happen. There is a hunger in the land, and it will not be long before everything comes to a head. Enjolras in particular is confident of this, and he seems convinced that it must be a violent confrontation. I do not think Combeferre is entirely on board with that idea, but Combeferre will never go against Enjolras' wishes. As for me, I do not care how it happens; I just wish for the suffering to end._

It was also the first thing that Clementine had seen that had a proper date, scrawled across the top: **1831**.

Clementine read it quickly and silently then passed it to Noémi.

"This is not a poem," Noémi pointed out after reading it.

"No, you're right, it's not what I was looking for, but…" Clementine accepted the slip of paper back and reread it. "It's so _interesting_, don't you think? I mean, who _was _this Jean Prouvaire?"

Noémi shrugged. "That long ago? He could be anyone, Clementine. I think you would be hard pushed to find him."

Still, that evening, Clementine found herself typing his name into a search engine. Although there were results for his name, none matched exactly with the dates and his own poetry – the ones she didn't recognise she had decided were his own works – turned up nothing.

So instead of searching for the man himself, she turned to the specific date. She looked at the slip of paper, and typed in the year – **1831**, followed by _revolution_ and _Paris_.

The first page that popped up was simply titled _The June Rebellion_. The date was one year out, she found, as this insurrection took place in 1832. She quickly read over the entire article on this event, from its causes, the build up, the actual rebellion with its barricades and societies and death and lack of success and then its aftermath.

Once she had finished reading, she sat back and looked down at Jean Prouvaire's note.

_Another revolution…a violent confrontation…I just wish for the suffering to end_.

The words brought a lump to Clementine's throat. The images thrown up by the article on the June Rebellion were ones of destruction and violence and death; unpleasant images, to say the least, made even worse by the fact it was a failed revolt.

She wondered whether Jean Prouvaire was at a barricade when the fighting broke out. Was this man involved in the fighting? In her mind, it was hard to pair the man from this book with a rebellion. From what she could see, Jean Prouvaire was a man with a clear love of literature, who wrote lovely, sweet poems about kittens, beautiful maidens and flowers. He was a man who talked very fondly of his friends and he was a man who seemed gentle and in love with love and life and all of its different facets. He seemed happy, kind, generous. It upset Clementine to think of this man, the Jean Prouvaire from her mind, firing a gun on a barricade amongst scenes of destruction.

Then the worst thought of all rose up, making the lump in Clementine's throat double in size. Had Jean Prouvaire made it out of the rebellion alive? Or had he died, like many others, felled by a bullet or a bayonet?

Clementine swallowed, hard, and shoved the slip of paper back between the pages and slammed the book shut. She closed the internet window she'd had open, and tried to think of something else – _anything_ else – apart from the idea of Jean Prouvaire dying.


	3. The Fortune Teller

**_Chapter Three_**

**The Fortune Teller**

It was Élodie's idea to visit the fortune teller.

Élodie collected tarot cards, obsessed over horoscopes, and tried to read people's tealeaves when she was bored. She believed in ghosts, and during Clementine's first week in the flat tried to convince them all to hold a séance. Clementine wasn't sure how much Élodie actually knew about these things and how much of it Élodie was inventing off the top of her head. The only thing that was certain was that Élodie bought into all of it.

The fortune teller was purely a tourist attraction. Clementine had seen it, the tiny, cramped shop stuffed into a cubbyhole between a dress shop and a tobacconist. The windows were boarded up, the wood painted black, and over the top the words _Fortune Teller_ had been painted in gold. Underneath was the price.

There was nothing else on the shop front. It wasn't the most welcoming of buildings Clementine had ever seen. Besides, she'd never been interested in having her fortune told.

That was, until the day she was shopping with Élodie, Noémi and Sophie, and Élodie suddenly became entranced with the idea of getting their fortunes told.

They stood outside the shop for a full fifteen minutes, arguing over whether they would do it or not. Sophie immediately refused. "I don't buy into that shit," she told them grumpily. "I'm going back to the flat."

No one argued, because being around Sophie sometimes was the equivalent of being followed by a black raincloud. They waited for her to stomp off, and then the discussion resumed.

"I have work to do and it's not worth the money," Noémi said.

"She could tell us our _future_," Élodie responded, her eyes going very wide. "Come on! Please?"

"You can't really _believe_ in this sort of thing," Noémi said. Noémi was very quiet, but practical; although a fan of fantasy novels, she had no real belief in any of it.

If it were possible, Élodie's eyes became even wider. "Why is it so ridiculous that I believe in it?"

"It's not ridiculous," Clementine said, trying to diffuse the situation. "You're allowed to believe in it if you want to."

"She's probably a fraud," Noémi pointed out.

"That's just rude. You can't say that," Élodie retorted, voice escalating in volume.

"Right, you two, calm down," Clementine said. "Noémi, I'll go in with Élodie, and you can wait outside, or go back to the flat."

Noémi rolled her eyes. "Not you, too," she said.

"It's just a bit of fun," Clementine said, with a shrug. That was something she was completely convinced of. "We won't be long."

"I'll go back to the flat," Noémi sighed. "I'll see you both later."

The door to the shop opened with an ominous creak. The first room was tiny, as cramped as it looked from the outside; the walls were painted a dark red, and there was one simple wooden bench to sit on. The main wall was occupied by a desk, which was unoccupied; behind the desk there was a door.

Élodie shut the door behind them and stepped up to the desk. She braced her hands on the edge and drummed her fingers on it. Clementine hovered behind her, uncertain of what was going to happen.

The door behind the desk opened, and a woman stepped out. She was tall and slender, with long, bright orange hair swept over one shoulder. Her pale blue eyes were staring and piercing; her lips were painted a blood red. There were too many rings on her fingers and bangles on her wrists to count. She wore a crocheted navy blue jumper over a black dress. There was a tangle of necklaces around her throat, chokers and chains and too many pendants.

"Can I help you?" she said, giving them a small smile.

"We'd like to have our fortunes read," Élodie said.

"Ah, not me," Clementine cut in. "I'm fine. I don't mind…"

"No one passes through my doors without having their fortunes read," the woman said, baring her teeth in some attempt at a smile. "Please, _mademoiselle_, I do insist."

"I don't have enough money on me," Clementine said. "But thank you."

"I'll do it free of charge," the woman said. "I do not do this job for the money. I do it to help people like you."

Élodie's face split in two with the size of her beam. Clementine internally groaned, wishing she'd wandered back to the flat with Noémi or Sophie.

"I'll do you first," the woman said to Élodie. "Come through."

Élodie walked around the desk and followed the woman through the door at the back. Clementine sank down onto the bench, crossing her legs. She fumbled in her satchel for Jean Prouvaire's book and began to reread one of his longer poems.

About ten minutes passed before Élodie emerged. There was a flush to her cheeks and a frown on her brow. "She charged me," Élodie pouted in a low voice. Then she said, "She said for you to go through."

The back room smelled like incense and perfume. The walls were draped with scarves of all different colours and sizes, and there was a small, round, polished table in the centre of the room. On one side was an overstuffed green chair, and the opposite that was a plain wooden one that the woman was sat on. The woman had her elbows braced on the table and her fingers linked together.

She was watching Clementine with a look in her eyes that reminded Clementine of a cat stalking its prey. "Sit down," the woman said.

"You're not going to charge me, are you?" Clementine said as she sank into the chair. "Because I genuinely haven't got the money on me right now."

"No charge," the woman said. "I charged your friend because she didn't need my services. You, on the other hand, need help. My name is Margaux. And your name is Clementine, am I right?"

Clementine narrowed her eyes with uncertainty. "How do you know my name?"

"Oh, I know things." The woman unclasped her hands and twisted one of her chunky rings around her finger. "I know a lot of things. Now, I tell people's fortunes by holding an object that has close emotional value to them. Do you have an object of that sort on your person?"

For a few moments, Clementine floundered, uncertain of what to suggest. Margaux sighed.

"Maybe I could have that book in your satchel?" she suggested.

"Book?" Clementine echoed.

"Yes," Margaux said slowly, as if talking to a very small child. "A collection of Aeschylus' plays, once owned by Jean Prouvaire?"

Clementine felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. "How – how do you know about that?" Clementine demanded.

"I know things," Margaux repeated. "The book, please."

Clementine retrieved the book from her bag and slid it across the table towards Margaux. She felt possessive as she did it. It was almost like she'd cut off her hand and was giving it to this strange woman.

The woman took hold of the book and held it so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her eyes closed.

"It is as I expected," Margaux said in a breathy voice. "Yes, exactly as I thought."

Clementine cocked her head to one side. "As you thought? What is?"

Margaux's eyes flew open, pale blue meeting cow brown. "Your fate, Clementine Evans, is entwined directly with that of Jean Prouvaire's," Margaux announced. "The task ahead of you will be difficult, but it is one you must complete, for both of your sake's."

"What task?" Clementine felt like snatching the book away from Margaux. "What does that even mean?"

Margaux pushed the book back across the table and into Clementine's waiting hands. "That is all I will tell you for today," she said. "If you want to know more, come back another day."

Clementine dropped the book into her bag, but she didn't make any move to stand up. "My – _fate_? Is entwined with Jean Prouvaire's?" she echoed.

Margaux nodded. "Yes."

"Margaux, I don't understand what that _means_," Clementine said, leaning across the table.

"You're not supposed to right now." Margaux stood up and pushed a hand through her hair, bracelets jangling. "As I said, you can come to see me in a few days. Everything should have started to become clear to you by then."

And then Clementine was shown out of the back room, wondering what on earth had just happened.


	4. The Poet

**_Chapter Four_**

**The Poet**

_Paris, 1832_

Jean Prouvaire had always enjoyed dreams.

There was something magical about them. He loved the way that the mind would explore things its awake side can't process; he loved the insanity and bizarre notions that could crop up when one was in the dream world.

When he was younger, he used to keep a record of his dreams and occasionally would elaborate on them, creating them into short, fantastical stories. As the years had gone by, his passion for story writing gave way to a love for poetry, and he stopped recording his dreams so religiously.

Then one night, he had a dream that was unlike any other he'd ever had in his life.

The first one was the longest and most elaborate. In the dream, he was watching a couple walking hand in hand down what he supposed was a street.

The first thing that struck him was how the man could have been his double. His face was identical to Jean's, his eyes and hair the same colour. He was the same height, the same build, and probably the same age if Jean had to hazard a guess. But there were startling differences. His hair was a lot shorter, shaved around the edges and back and in longer curls on top. There was a scruff of a beard on his chin. And his clothes were peculiar – clinging trousers made from a stiff-looking, faded blue fabric, and a shirt with a gaudy dark blue and bright red checked pattern beneath a vibrant pale blue jacket with a hood. Jean had never seen clothes like them. The jacket and shirt's sleeves had been rolled up to the elbow, and Jean noticed there were many bracelets around the man's wrists. And he was wearing boots the colour of lemons, incredibly shiny boots.

Then there was the woman beside him. She was a little bit shorter, the top of her head reaching the bottom of his ears; he would have described her build as slim, but Jean could see the evidence of a slightly podgy tummy and slight wobble to her hips emphasised by the incredibly tight dress she was wearing. When Jean was awake, he would be shocked at the girl's lack of modesty; the dress clung to every curve that she had (and he could not help but notice she had many of them) and ended mid thigh. Her legs were completely bare, and her feet were in leather sandals. She wore spectacles, and had a pale blue bow in her dark blonde hair. There was a ring through her nose, and navy feathers dangled from her ears.

Jean could not help but focus on this couple, although there were many people walking around them in all directions. One of the only familiar aspects of this dream world he was inhabiting was the hustle and bustle of people going about their daily business. Their clothes, however, confused him; there was a lot of different variety, although he found it very bizarre – some of the women were wearing trousers, and the dresses that some of them were wearing were in his mind indecently short.

He could tell they were on a street; he could see shops and buildings lining the street as well as small trees. But the middle of it was occupied by a road, which was in turn occupied not by horse-drawn carriages or carts but by – well, he didn't know how to describe them. They were boxes with wheels, almost resembling a carriage in the sense they had doors and windows, but they seemed to be able to move of their own volition.

He congratulated his mind on outdoing itself with inventiveness, before he became occupied with the couple who had initially grasped his attention.

"_No_, Clementine, I will not tell you," the man was saying in a fondly exasperated tone. "It's for your birthday. It's supposed to be a _surprise_."

The woman at his side pouted. "I don't _like_ surprises," she said. She spoke French with an accent he couldn't quite place.

"You're only saying this because Noémi gave you a clue," the man replied, shaking his head. Jean watched as he pulled Clementine closer to his body, letting go of her hand to wrap an arm around her waist. The man ducked his head down to drop a kiss onto Clementine's neck, and Jean was torn between giving the young couple some privacy and watching the display of affection with greedy eyes.

"Her clue was Catullus. I don't _like_ Catullus," Clementine complained.

The man's eyes flashed with amusement.

"_I hate and I love; and if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two_," he recited, holding a hand dramatically over his chest. The woman's response was to elbow him in the stomach, but she then paused and reached up with both hands to cup his face in her palm.

This time, Jean's dream-self did turn away rather than watch the following kiss; there was an odd sort of yearning feeling in his chest that was almost painful, and he knew it would have hurt him to watch the young couple any longer.

III

After the first dream came many more. Some were similar to the first, the couple walking down streets; one was the man presenting Clementine with a new copy of the plays of Sophocles for her birthday (an excited squeal from the girl revealed Sophocles to be her favourite playwright). Then there was the dream of them eating food together in some gardens, cuddling on a bed, having a meal with some friends…

The dreams carried on, and Jean felt like he was losing his mind.

He had always been good at remembering dreams, but the details of these dreams clung to his brain as if they were happening right then and there. He could relive every second if he chose to, and all of the feelings that went along with it. He found himself growing obsessed with this rather odd couple in their unusual little world.

He coped with this in the only way he knew how, and that was in writing poetry.

Poetry was Jean's main passion; it was one of the only things he thought he was truly good at. The ability to weave words into a pattern that sounded beautiful and _meant_ something beautiful was an ability that Jean admired in any person; and he strived to be able to write as beautifully as some of his favourite poets.

However, a love of penning poetry and a typically dreamy, romantic nature could occasionally combine and result in teasing from his friends. He didn't usually mind. He loved his friends, loved them all like brothers, and he understood that teasing was as natural as breathing for some of his friends.

This understanding of his friends, however, was not present on the day they learned of his dreams.

It had been during one of their many meetings at the Café Musain, and Jean had just finished penning a paragraph about the lady from his dreams. Enjolras was giving one of his speeches. Jean normally loved to listen to Enjolras' speeches because he thought that Enjolras was an exceptional wordsmith, but today, all he wanted to do was write.

Then the speech was over, and his friends were no longer distracted, and he didn't realise that Courfeyrac was peering over his shoulder before it was too late.

"_I dream of you, every single night; and the image of you will not fade away. I see women every single day, but none of them compare to you; their beauty fades to grey, until you are the only thing in colour. Why would I want to look upon them in the sunshine, when I could gaze upon you in the moonlight_…" Courfeyrac read out loud. Jean nearly jumped out of his skin, but managed to resist the urge to elbow his friend in the chest.

"What was that? Jehan's dreaming of a girl?" their other friend Bahorel boomed, dropping into the chair opposite him. Jean felt his heart sinking; Courfeyrac and Bahorel were both loud, the latter more boisterous than the former, although Courfeyrac could be more persistent. Between them, they could be relentless in their teasing.

"Apparently so," Courfeyrac chimed, pulling out the chair that was beside Jean. "According to Jehan none of the other women can compare to her…"

"Christ, he is lost," Bahorel said. "Who is she?"

"No one," Jean said, feeling embarrassed. He tucked the poem away in his book of Aeschylus plays and shut the book.

"That's not true," Courfeyrac responded. "You cannot stop thinking about her, if your writing is to be believed, although I think that blush on your cheeks tells us more about the matter. Come, Jehan, who is this girl?"

"I don't know," Jean said.

"You've dreamed her up?" Bahorel's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"It has happened before," Courfeyrac pointed out.

At this point, Grantaire decided to join them. Jean nearly dropped his head into his hands at the sight of the drunk.

"Dreamed who up?" the man demanded.

"No one!" Jean knew his tone was exasperated, and he desperately wanted to escape the room. "It was just…It was just me musing on something, that's all."

Bahorel leaned across the table. "You can tell us," he said. "We're your friends. Who is the girl?"

Purely out of some belief he would not leave the room unless he confessed, Jean said, "She is from my dreams."

"Your ideal girl?" Courfeyrac surmised. "You've written plenty of poems about _that_."

"No," Jean said, "Not this girl. Well, I have written poems about her, but – it's different. I've…I've been dreaming, about myself – at least, I think it is myself, the man looks exactly like me – and a woman named Clementine. I keep on having these dreams. They are very detailed but they are…curious. They do not take place in our – world, I suppose, for lack of a better word."

"So she is someone you've dreamed up," Bahorel said.

"No," Jean said again hotly. "I have _not_ dreamed her up!"

He realised his tone was a lot sharper than he intended and immediately regretted it. Courfeyrac patted him on the arm.

"There's no need to lose your temper," he said.

"I'm not –" Jean's nostrils flared. "I just – I have not invented her. She is not a figment of my imagination."

"Have you met this girl?" Grantaire placed his elbow on the table and then rested his chin in his palm. "Seen her in person?"

Jean had to shake his head, although he really didn't want to admit to this fact.

"Then how do you know you haven't invented her?" Grantaire concluded.

"Because – I just – I just _know_." Jean felt incredibly frustrated. How could he explain it? "I _feel_ like she is real. Like she is not a part of my dreams. I am _dreaming_ these scenes of this couple, but the scenes are not dreams. They are happening. That is what I feel."

"Oh Lord." Bahorel rolled his eyes. "He _is_ lost. To a fantasy."

Jean stood up. "It is _not_ a fantasy," he said. "Clementine is –" He didn't know how to finish that sentence properly. His heart had all the answers: Clementine was a real person. She was flesh and blood, just like him, with dreams and hopes and wants; she breathed as he did, walked as he did, loved as he did. That was what his heart told him, even if his mind knew that he had know way of knowing if this was true. His heart was telling him that Clementine was real – it just could not tell him where she was. But he knew she was out there, somewhere.

He cleared his throat and looked around at his friends. "I don't care what you believe," he said. "I don't know why I am _having_ these dreams, but I know they are more than that – they are more than dreams."

With that, he stormed out of the café, remembering to pick up his book before he did so. As he stomped, he internally kicked himself for his overreaction, and couldn't help but wonder why Bahorel's description of Clementine as a fantasy had angered him so.

**A/N: The poem featured is Catullus 85. Also, thank you for the reviews/alerts/favourites, I really appreciate it; the reviews have also been lovely to read and I'm glad that people are enjoying this story so far :)**


	5. The Woman in the Alley

**_Chapter Five_**

**The Woman in the Alley**

_Paris, 1832_

There was a little fall of rain the evening that Prouvaire met the old woman.

He was hurrying to one of the meetings at the Café Musain, turning the collar of his coat up against the rain. There was a harsh breeze ruffling his hair and chilling him to the bone. He kept one hand on the strap of his bag, wincing as rain flew into his face and eyes. The rain was definitely getting heavier, he decided, as a particularly nasty gust of wind knocked the hat from his head.

He groaned out loud as he began to chase his hat back down the street. A gaggle of gamins and gamines laughed at his rather silly run; he was running more or less in a crouch as the hat kept on evading his hands.

A shout escaped his lips as the hat swirled off down an alley. He paused at the mouth of the passageway, considering leaving the hat and carrying on his way. It hadn't been a cheap hat, though, and it was one of his favourites, a red cap.

With a sigh, he began to make his way down the alley.

The cap had come to a rest a few feet down the alley, sat in the middle of a puddle of dirty water. He hurried over to it, wrapping his hand over the sodden cloth. He wrung it out, recognising it was a futile gesture considering he was about to head out into the rain anyway.

He stared at the hat, uncertain of what to do with it now. He'd wash it when he got home later, he decided, and turned to leave the alleyway.

Prouvaire nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the woman who was stood right behind him.

She was tall, probably taller than him, but maybe not much older – it was hard to tell in the dim light of the alleyway. Her bright red hair was braided into a loose plait and hung in a heavy rope over one shoulder; her dress was grey, ragged around the hem which stopped just above her ankles. It revealed holey, battered boots on her feet. There was a pale blue shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders, and both of her hands clutched at it as if she was scared it might fly away.

What perturbed him the most was her eyes. They were a pale, piercing blue, staring right into his without blinking. He had thought Enjolras had a commanding stare, but his was nothing compared to this woman's.

"Jean Prouvaire," she said, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside her. Her legs crossed at the ankle, one knee rising upwards. "I've been wanting to see you, _monsieur_."

"Pardon?" He tucked the cap into his pocket, his mind whirling. "Sorry, _mademoiselle_ – do I know you?"

"No," she said. "You don't. But you need to know me." She pushed off the wall, coming towards him. He took a step backwards, right into the puddle he had just rescued his hat from. She was indeed slightly taller than him, he observed, as she stopped only an inch away from him. He thought their shoes might be touching.

"Would you like to follow me?" she suggested.

Maybe she was a whore, he thought to himself. So he shook his head. "Sorry, _mademoiselle_, I don't wish to –"

"Please," she said, cocking her head to one side. One hand let go of the shawl to gesture towards a small, damaged door to their right. The door was made from wooden panels nailed together, but some of these panels had either been completely removed or were broken; it was also slightly crooked, hanging off its hinges, and wasn't completely shut.

The woman strode towards the door and yanked it open. It revealed a dark, cramped room – if you could even call it that. It was possibly too small to be considered an actual room. It was lit by one small lamp; he could see from where he was stood that there was one wooden crate in there, and not much else.

Despite his better judgement, Prouvaire found his feet moving towards the room. He ducked so he could step inside. Once the woman had joined him, he realised there was really very little room at all.

"Sit," she ordered.

He dropped down onto the wooden crate. It creaked ominously under his weight, the wood old and weak.

There was a rickety wooden chair tucked against the opposite wall, he noticed, and that was what the woman sat on after pulling the door shut behind them.

"I tell people's fortunes," the woman said, removing her shawl and gnawing on the nail of her thumb. "Can I have that book in your bag?"

"Sorry?" Prouvaire was confused by the whole situation, from the woman, the room she had shown him into, to her profession and her last question. "A book?"

"It's a book of that fellow's writing," she said, gesturing with her hand. He could see her thumb glistening from her saliva. "He wrote plays. Theatre."

He found himself fumbling in his satchel for his book of Aeschylus plays. It was the only one he had on his person that matched that  
description, and he was dumbfounded that this woman knew he had it in his bag.

Wordlessly, Prouvaire handed the woman his book. She didn't even flick through it. She just held it in her slightly grubby palms. He hoped he wouldn't have to pay her considering she was probably leaving smudges on the cover right now.

"You're the right one," she said. "You've been having dreams, haven't you, Jean?"

"Sorry?" He didn't know how to answer that one. "Doesn't everybody have dreams?"

"Not like yours." The woman bared her teeth, revealing gaps where a couple of teeth had obviously once been. "You've been dreaming of a man and a woman, haven't you? Every night for a few months now. Clementine, her name is."

For a moment, it felt like his heart had stopped. "How do you know about that?"

The woman smirked. "I know lots of things," she said. "It's what I do, Jean. You're dreaming of Clementine already; she hasn't started dreaming of you yet."

He found himself leaning across the table, suddenly eager to hear more. "She exists?"

"Of course she exists." The woman rolled her eyes. "You shouldn't listen to that friend of yours. Bahorel's his name, yes?"

Prouvaire nodded. "But, Clementine…"

"Is very important," the woman said, handing the book back to him. "Oh, she is important to your life, Jean. Your _life_. Your very fate is entwined with hers. You _need_ her, Jean. You need her so your verse doesn't end before its time."

"Where is she?" Prouvaire demanded, drumming his fingers on his book out of nervousness. "Where can I find her?"

"Not here, not in this time," the woman said. "Ask me no more, Jean, because I cannot tell you. It is Clementine's job from now on. Just be on your guard."

The next thing he knew, Prouvaire was back on the main street, wondering what on earth had just happened.


	6. The Real Jean Prouvaire

**_Chapter Six_**

**The Real Jean Prouvaire**

Clementine dreamed of Jean Prouvaire on a night when she'd had too much to drink.

She generally didn't get drunk; she'd been more inclined to when she was at home in England, but she'd only been out a couple of times since moving to France.

It had been Sophie's idea, encouraged by Pauline, who thought Clementine's social life was boring. Élodie had been all for the idea, and had insisted on helping Clementine dress up, lending her jewellery and curling her hair. Noémi had been invited but declined on the grounds she had an essay to finish. Clementine was fairly certain seeing as they shared all the same lectures that Noémi _didn't_, but she wasn't going to push it.

She'd had too much vodka, had stumbled back with Élodie and Sophie (Pauline stayed behind with some friends from her philosophy classes), and then fell into bed. She was asleep with in seconds and that was when the dream happened.

She was in a room of men. They were all around her age or a little bit older, sat in a dimly lit room filled with chairs and tables. She knew as soon as she focused in on what was happening that they were not men from her time just by their clothes. There were too many waistcoats and proper shirts and high-waisted trousers. It was like watching a period drama, she thought to herself, before realising she was able to weave in and out of these men. The room was hot, very hot, and she could smell tobacco and alcohol quite strongly.

In the centre of the room was the largest table, and various different papers were laid out across it. A lot of men were crowded around this table, although most of the attention seemed to be on a tall blond man who was talking whilst gesturing in an animated fashion with his hands.

Her attention, however, was completely centred on a man sat on a smaller table next to this one by himself. The man was scribbling on a piece of paper with a pencil, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

He was handsome enough in a cute way; his face was clean shaven, although he had quite bushy sideburns; his hair was brown, in quite tight curls. His clothes amused her; his waistcoat was a bright blue, his trousers cream, and the cravat around his neck was stitched with flowers. The coat hung over the chair he was sat on was a dark green, and there was a red cap sat on the table next to a book.

With a jolt in her chest, Clementine recognised the book. It was hers – well, Jean Prouvaire's – but it didn't look as battered. Still, she'd know it anywhere. She got as close as she could to the table, looking closer at the man.

He suddenly leaned back in his seat and tapped his pencil against his lips, looking very thoughtful indeed. Then he began to write again, a pleased expression settling across his face; she assumed he'd found the words he was trying to write.

The discussion at the larger table ended, and a couple of the men ambled over to the table the man was sat at. One was tall and dark-haired, grinning broadly; another was smiling just as hugely but his nose looked like it had been broken more than a couple of times; the third was bald and looked older than the other two. They dropped into chairs around the table, and ignored Clementine. She wondered if anyone had noticed she was there at all.

The one with the wonky nose reached out and tugged the piece of paper from underneath the man's pencil. "Clementine _again_, Jehan?" he said with a small roll of his eyes.

"Leave him alone, Bahorel," the bald one said, sighing.

The other man – Jehan – glared at the wonky nosed one – Bahorel, she assumed – and snatched the paper back. "Yes, leave me alone, Bahorel," he said.

Bahorel snorted. "I just do not understand it, that's all," he said. "So you dream about this girl and talk about her nearly _all _the time and we're just supposed to act like this is normal? You've never even _met_ her."

Jehan tapped his pencil against the tabletop. "I don't expect you to understand," he said. She could detect the frustration in his voice.

The dark-haired one put his hand over Jehan's to still his tapping pencil. "Jehan, none of us actually mind," he said. "Bahorel's just teasing. Although I think Enjolras' head may combust if he hears you mention Clementine again."

The tall blond man that she had noticed when she'd arrived in this room heard this, judging by the way he suddenly straightened up and shot them a reproachful look. Jehan caught the look and sighed heavily. "It's not me," he said, in a tired voice. "It's _them_."

"You're turning into Pontmercy," the dark-haired one teased. "Or is he turning into you? Will it be long before he's regaling us with poetry written for his fair Colette?"

"It's Cosette," the bald one interrupted. "I think."

"Cosette," Bahorel said, nodding. "He's said it often enough. Where _is_ he, anyway?"

The bald one and Bahorel turned the conversation away, but the dark-haired one kept his attention firmly on Jehan.

In a low voice, the dark-haired one said, "How are the dreams now? Are they any…worse?"

"He proposed last night," Jehan said in a dull voice. "Clementine accepted."

"Who is the 'he'?" The dark-haired one cocked his head to one side. "You mention him…"

"I do not know." Jehan raked a hand through his hair. "He _looks_ like me, but…different. His hair is different, for a start…"

Clementine listened to all of this, her mind reeling. They were saying _her _name. And Jehan – that sounded a lot like Jean to her – had _her_ book – or was it his book? Was Jehan Jean Prouvaire? It made sense, she supposed…Then came the excitement. She was stood in the same room as _Jean Prouvaire_, the man she had been obsessing over for weeks.

And he knew her name.

Could it be he had been obsessing over her too? Not just _obsessing _– the dark-haired man had mentioned _dreams_. Had he been dreaming of _her_?

She then realised what Jehan had just said. _He proposed…Clementine accepted_.

What was he talking about?

She tuned back into the conversation.

"…So you're saying you're jealous?" The dark-haired man's eyebrows had disappeared nearly into his hairline.

"Jealousy." Jehan shook his head. "Unless that man is actually me, no, I don't particularly want him to marry her."

"Until you find out where she is, though, there's not much you can do about it," the dark-haired man pointed out.

"Courfeyrac, don't you think I know that?" Jehan pressed a hand to his forehead. "And that woman said I _needed_ her…"

There was sympathy in Courfeyrac's eyes, and then Clementine was awake.

She was back in her room in her flat; watery morning sunlight poured in through a gap in the curtains. She was lying on her front, and she sat up slowly. Her head was pounding and her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage. She realised she was still wearing her dress and high heels and jewellery. The hair grip that had been keeping her hair in a knot on the back of her head was loose but tangled in her now-loose hair.

With a groan she pulled the grip out of her hair and set it on her bedside table. She swung her legs out of the bed and eased her feet out of her heels, before fiddling with the zip on the side of her dress. Once it was unzipped, she just sat there, staring into space.

She was confident that she'd seen Jean Prouvaire in her dream. That man, with his curly hair, sideburns and frustrated expression, _had _to have been him. He knew her name, he'd dreamed about her, he had _their_ book…

Slowly, she removed her dress and got into some pyjamas, deciding it was best to go back to sleep. She crawled back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head. She tried to think of other things, but Jean's face kept on swimming into her mind, along with his quietly spoken words.

She just hoped it would make more sense once she'd had more sleep and all of the alcohol had completely left her system, because if it didn't, she was sure she was losing her mind.


	7. The Concern of Noémi

**_Chapter Seven_**

**The Concern of Noémi**

"Are you all right, Clementine?" Noémi asked one morning, a couple of weeks later. Clementine was sat at the table in their kitchen, her hands clasped around a mug of hot tea, whilst Noémi leaned against the fridge and stirred a vanilla yoghurt.

"Hm?" Clementine looked up at her friend, confused. She'd been in a world of her own, thinking of the dream she'd woken up from only half an hour earlier. There had been explosions and feathers and blood, so much blood…

Suddenly Noémi was sat at the table opposite her, the yoghurt pushed to one side. "Clementine, you've not been looking…" Noémi seemed to struggle to find the right words. "You've been looking more and more tired. There are bags under your eyes. You're always yawning. Are you sleeping properly?"

Clementine sighed. "No, not really," she admitted, her voice a low mutter.

"Is everything all right?" Noémi said. She touched Clementine's hand lightly. "You can tell me, you know; if there's anything you need to talk about…"

"It's just dreams," Clementine said. "I've been having some…odd dreams."

"Nightmares?" Noémi suggested.

"Not in the traditional sense, although they feel like it," Clementine replied, thinking of the blood and screams and gunfire. "I'm just…Sometimes, I don't want to go to sleep because I fear what I might see. Does that make sense?"

Noémi nodded her head slowly. "Yes, it does," she said. "Do you mind me asking what these…dreams are about?"

Clementine snorted. "Jean."

"Jean?" Noémi echoed. "Who is Jean? Do you mean that boy from our Greek history class? The blond one with the glasses? You're dreaming about _him_?"

Pauline chose that moment to make her grand entrance, bringing with her the scent of chocolate perfume and apple shampoo.

"Who is dreaming about who?" she demanded, heading straight for the fridge. She grabbed an apple from her shelf and bit into it with a crunch.

Clementine shot Noémi a _look_ that she hoped clearly said, _not now_.

Fortunately, Noémi seemed to get the message.

"It doesn't matter," Noémi said, returning Clementine's look with one that said, _we're talking about this later_.

III

That night, she dreamed of Jehan kneeling in the street, head bowed forward, guns trained on him; there was a triumphant shout from him that twisted her chest; "_Vive la France_! Long live the future!"

She woke, sweating, her limbs trembling. _Long live the future_ was ricocheting around her head and refusing to leave; she lifted one shaking hand to touch her face and realised that her cheeks were wet with tears.

Heart pounding, she swung her legs out of bed and stood up. Grabbing her dressing gown from where it lay on the floor, she made her way out of her room and into the kitchen, shrugging on the dressing gown as she walked.

The kitchen lights weren't on, and she could not hear any sounds of people moving around. The whole flat felt very quiet and still. She tried her best to be as quiet as she possibly could whilst she padded around the kitchen trying to make herself a cup of tea in the darkness.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, she hitched herself up onto the counter and set about tying the belt on her gown. Over the hum of the boiling water she heard the sound of one of the other girl's bedroom doors opening and closing. A moment later, Noémi poked her head around the door, confusion etched across her sleepy face.

"Is everything all right, Clementine?" Noémi said through a yawn, stepping fully into the room and pulling out one of their plastic kitchen chairs to sit on. "It's half-three in the morning."

"I had a bad dream," Clementine replied.

"Another one?" Noémi asked, wiping sleep out of her eyes.

"Yeah, another one," Clementine confirmed. "They're basically the only think I've been dreaming for weeks now."

"Go to a doctor?" her friend suggested, bringing her feet up onto the chair and wrapping her arms around her knees.

"And say what?" Clementine couldn't help but snort. Beside her, the kettle finished boiling, but she ignored it. "Sorry to trouble you, but I've been dreaming of a man who died in the June Rebellion of 1832 whose book I recently bought from a junk shop."

Noémi's eyebrows rose. "That sounds rather complicated. Do you mean the man from your book? The Aeschylus one?"

Clementine nodded, a glum expression on her face. Her friend sighed.

"This isn't healthy," Noémi said. "It's stopping you from sleeping, Clementine. And you need your sleep. Maybe…"

"Maybe?" Clementine prompted.

"Maybe you should get rid of the book."

The idea of losing that book felt like losing a limb to Clementine. She couldn't imagine going anywhere without that book with her, couldn't imagine not being able to open it and read through his poems whenever she wanted, couldn't imagine not being able to run her fingers over his elegant handwriting…

"I couldn't," Clementine said. "Besides, this isn't the Chamber of Secrets…It's just – it's just a book of plays…"

"You think you're _dreaming_ of the man," Noémi said, a note of exasperation in her voice. "How do you even know it's him?"

"I've seen people mention his name," Clementine answered, her throat closing as she thought once more of the last dream she'd had of Jean Prouvaire.

"Yes, because you're thinking about him so much," Noémi said, gently. "That doesn't mean it's _him_. It's a dream."

"It's always the same man," Clementine countered. "Also, he knows _my_ name."

Exasperation turned to sympathy in Noémi's eyes. "That doesn't mean a thing," she murmured, voice soft and sad. "It's a _dream_, Clementine. It's in your _head_. It's not real."

"It feels real," Clementine said stubbornly.

"Exactly my point," Noémi said. "It _feels_ real, you say…It only _feels_ that way. Do you get what I'm trying to say here?"

Clementine pushed herself off the counter top and began to pour the water from the kettle into her mug. Ignoring the weight of Noémi's stare on the back of her neck, Clementine fished for a spoon in her cutlery drawer and set about stirring her tea.

"I'm not getting rid of the book," she said, pouring milk into the cup.

Noémi shook her head. "Fine, then, don't," she replied. "But at least try not to fixate on the book too much…Stop reading it so much, and stop carrying it around with you. Maybe that will help and you'll be able to get some sleep."

Clementine sighed, considering Noémi's advice as she stirred the milk into her tea. Sleep sounded like such a nice idea right now.

"I suppose I could try that," she muttered, dumping her spoon into the sink with a noisy clatter. Raising her cup of tea to her lips, she considered the ways she could stop herself from reading the book too much.

_Vive la France_ suddenly shouted through her head and she flinched. Tea sloshed over the sides of her mug, burning her fingers and staining her dressing gown. She set her mug down with a thud and swiped at the damp stains on her clothing. Her fingers tingled and she grabbed the nearest thing to her – a tea towel – and wrapped them around her hand.

Noémi's words were making a lot more sense considering how much she was struggling to force the words from her dream out of her head.

Maybe she _would_ have to get rid of the book…

_Long live the future!_

She jerked again, covering her face with her hands. No. She couldn't. Whatever was going on, it would not be ignored.

"Clementine?" She felt a hand touch her shoulder gently. Clementine glanced around; Noémi was hovering behind her, one arm outstretched, concern written all over her face.

"Sorry, I'm just very tired," she said, through a yawn. "Thank you for talking to me, Noémi. I really appreciate it."

Noémi stepped back. She didn't look convinced.

Clementine picked up her tea again. "I'm going to try and get some sleep," she said. "And before you say anything, I will _try_ not to think about the book, I promise."

The two girls bade each other goodnight and retreated to their respective bedrooms. Clementine placed her tea on her bedside table and then sat on the edge of the bed. She felt tired, the sleepiness gnawing down into the depths of her bones. Staring around her little, cluttered room, it was almost easy to forget the dream. There was nothing in here to remind her of Jean Prouvaire…

Except that book.

As that thought entered her head, she turned to look at the small leather bound tome that sat next to her cup of tea.

She reached out and picked the book up. As she laid her hands on it, the sights from her dream came rushing back to her. _Long live the future_, and then gunshots…Blood, too much blood, and pain…

Closing her eyes she stood up quickly crossed the room to her wardrobe, carrying the book under her arm and dragging her desk chair with her. Yanking the wardrobe doors open, she positioned the chair in front of the wardrobe and climbed onto it. Then she shoved the book beneath a heap of bed sheets and towels she stored in the very top of her wardrobe. Stepping down, she shoved the chair away and slammed the wardrobe doors shut.

Sliding the chair back over to its place under her desk, she flopped back down onto the bed and covered her arm with her eyes, hoping that she might get a good night's sleep at last.


	8. The Cryptic Clue

**_Chapter Eight_**

**The Cryptic Clue**

Clementine managed to make it three whole days before retrieving the book from her wardrobe. She told herself it had nothing to do with Jean Prouvaire, and that it had everything to do with the fact her internet was down and she needed to reread Catullus 16.

The minute her fingertips touched the soft, worn leather and felt the weight of hundreds of pages on her hands, something within her relaxed. The anxious knot that had formed somewhere in her chest the morning after she hid the book slowly loosened and then disappeared altogether.

The dreams hadn't stopped in those three days, either; if anything, they'd become worst. For the first two days, she relived the same dream again and again – gunfire, Jean kneeling on cobblestones, and a proud shout of _Long live the future_ echoing around her head.

Then the night before she removed the book from its hiding place, she had the worst dream of all. She was looking down upon Jean's corpse. His body was riddled with bullets, and there was blood, so much blood, but his eyes were wide open and defiant. Even in her dream form, however, she wanted to break down and cry, throw herself to her knees and shake his lifeless form. He didn't deserve it: he didn't deserve to bleed and die a violent death, not this gentle man who wrote poems about _kittens_…

She'd struggled to force the image of Jean's blank eyes to the back of her head throughout the day. Then she'd checked her to-do list, saw she had to reread Catullus 16, and that was when she realised that the internet was acting up and she didn't have access to a hard copy of Catullus' poems. And the library was so far away, whilst she knew there was a French translation of the poem inside Jean's book.

It had surprised her, the first time she'd seen it, because Catullus 16 was one of the Roman poet's more vulgar examples of poetry and Jean wasn't a vulgar person. But after looking at it closely she realised that it was written in a different hand altogether, and someone had made a vague attempt to scribble out the black lettering with pencil.

Still, it was a copy of the poem, which was all she needed.

At least, that was what she was telling herself, even if the easing of the ache in her chest was a blessing all on its own.

III

She didn't tell Noémi she'd started to read the book again, because she knew that Noémi would disapprove. She just became more discreet about it. She no longer read it in the kitchen or took it to lectures with it.

Instead, she reserved it for her room alone, particularly when she lay in bed at night and didn't want to go to sleep in case she dreamed of Jean's lifeless body again.

Fortunately, ever since she'd retrieved the book, her dreams had returned to a somewhat happier place. They were still of Jean, and occasionally, him in the midst of battle, but there were more of him with his friends, laughing, joking, drinking, reciting poetry. Those dreams made her wake up with a smile on her face, and she wasn't scared to sleep if she was having _those_ dreams.

III

Nearly two weeks later, Clementine found herself walking past the fortune teller's once more. It was a warmer day, and she'd decided to go out and buy herself some bread and cheeses to make herself a simple lunch.

It hadn't been the first time she'd walked past the fortune teller's since she'd been in, but today, it was different. The front door to the stall was propped open, and the fortune teller herself, Margaux, sat outside on a rickety, white plastic chair. She looked a bit different today; her red hair was piled up on top of her head, her wide staring eyes were lined with thick kohl, and her lips were painted a deep purple. There were huge white feathers hanging from her ears, brushing the tops of her shoulders, and she wore a dress of rich navy satin that fell to her ankles. She had a black shawl draped around her shoulders, and her feet were bare, revealing toenails painted silver.

She was also staring at Clementine, who couldn't help but slow down and stare at Margaux.

"We meet again," Margaux drawled, drumming her fingers on the arm of her plastic chair. "The weather is nice today, isn't it?"

Clementine didn't speak, but found herself drifting closer to the fortune teller.

"Still, I know you don't enjoy the days any longer," Margaux continued. "How are your dreams?"

Clementine felt her face flush at the woman's words, although she wasn't sure why. "They're fine," she replied stiffly.

"He's stopped dying in them now, hasn't he," Margaux guessed. "Now that fate is certain it won't be ignored."

"What do you want, Margaux?" Clementine snapped. In her anger, she'd said the question in her native English tongue, and immediately rephrased it in French. Margaux grinned.

"There's really no need to get angry," Margaux said. "I'm only trying to help you. And I _can_ help you, Clementine; have no doubts about that." The fortune teller's eyes narrowed a little. "There is something on your mind, isn't there? You might as well tell me."

Clementine inched closer. Dropping her voice, she said, "Is it all in my head? Is it a figment of my imagination? Is it _real_?"

"It is all in your head," Margaux said slowly. "But that doesn't mean it's not real. The mind and reality are not two separate entities; more often than not, they are the exact same thing. It is just learning to recognise that."

"So Jean…existed?"

"Of course he existed," Margaux said. "You own one of his books. You own his poetry. You know the man existed."

"But the man I see in my dreams," Clementine said. "What about him? _Is_ that Jean Prouvaire?"

"Of course it is Jean Prouvaire, who else can it be?" Margaux sat forward and cupped her chin in her hand, bangles on her wrist jangling with the movement.

"But…It doesn't make any sense," Clementine murmured, shaking her head.

"It makes perfect sense."

"It really doesn't," Clementine said. "_I_ don't understand, anyway, and seeing as the dreams are happening to _me_ I find that very troubling. Wouldn't you?"

"If I were ordinary like you then of course I would," Margaux agreed. "But I am not ordinary. I see what normal people do not. So I don't find it troubling at all. There are some things humans are not meant to know straight away, it causes too many problems. But I _can_ give you a clue."

At that point, Clementine was willing to take anything she could get. Anything to try and ease the confusion speaking to Margaux had caused.

"And that clue is?" she prompted.

"The verse of Jean Prouvaire must not end," was Margaux's simple response. As she spoke, the fortune teller raised her hands to her hair and began to remove pins from the mass of red curls, letting the waves tumble around her shoulders. She brushed a hand through her hair.

"The verse of…it mustn't end? What does that mean?" Clementine's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

Margaux shrugged, holding the collection of hairpins in her fist. "I personally think it is self-explanatory, but as I said, I am not ordinary like you. But, I will add this: you will not be happy if his verse ends."

The woman stood, the plastic chair creaking following the relief of Margaux's weight. "I think I've had enough sun for one day," she said as a goodbye, picking up the chair and sauntering back inside her tiny shop.

For a few minutes, Clementine stood there, staring at the still open door. A part of her wanted to storm after Margaux and demand more answers, but then her stomach rumbled and she remembered she needed food.

Maybe her questions could wait one day more, she decided, and set off for home, mulling over Margaux's curious words in her head.

III

That night, she dreamed she was in Jean's little apartment. Specifically, she was in his room, perched on a chest beneath his window. She was alone at first, but then the door opened and Jean came in.

He had his nose buried in a book; not _their_ book, but another one she didn't recognise. After he nearly walked into the bed, he closed the book with a snap and dropped it onto the bed. She watched as he loosened the spotty scarf at his throat and dragged it off, swallowing as she watched his fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt.

She wanted to look away, but she wanted to _see_ him too. Whilst she tried to decide what to do, she shifted on her seat upon the chest, the heel of her foot thumping into the edge of the chest with a dull thud.

Jean's head snapped up, and his eyes bored into hers. Then they widened, and he stumbled backwards. The scarf drifted to the floor.

"C-C-C-Clementine?!" Jean gasped. "What – what – what on _earth _are you doing here?!"

Clementine nearly fell off the chest in shock.

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews for the last chapter, they are much appreciated and helped put a smile on my face during my revision for exams :D**


	9. The Meeting

**_Chapter Nine_**

**The Meeting**

Jean could not believe his eyes. Clementine, the girl from his dreams, was sat in the same room as him. There was a delightfully bewildered expression on her face as she scrabbled to regain her balance.

"You – you can see me?" she said, in oddly accented French. It was so strange, to hear her voice and for it to be directed at him instead of her usual companion.

"Yes," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you."

His legs felt weak, so he sank down onto the edge of his bed. He found he could not take his eyes off her. She was prettier in real life, her hair tousled, and that dress she was wearing had him thinking highly indecent thoughts. It was a dress of white cotton, with thin strings holding it up, the top part clinging to her generous bosom whilst flowing loosely over her torso to stop just above her knee.

She was looking at him as if she could not quite believe what was happening.

"You're…" She ran a trembling hand through her mane of brown hair, then let it drop to rest on her thigh. "You're Jean Prouvaire, aren't you? The _real _Jean Prouvaire?"

He nodded. "And you're Clementine," he said. "I've dreamed of you."

"I've dreamed of you, too," she murmured. Her fingertips touched her temple. "I'm sorry, I…I feel a little unwell."

Jean got to his feet, concern overriding his amazement at the situation. "Would you like some wine?" he suggested. "I have some…"

"I can't see how alcohol would make me feel better," she said. "I'll be fine just…just give me a minute, please."

Jean lowered himself back down onto the mattress. His hands were twitching with the uncomfortable urge to start fidgeting. She was staring down at the floor, her hands now gripping the edge of the chest so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

"This is very odd," she said, looking up at him. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Odd doesn't begin to describe it," he said. "You said…You dreamed of me, like I dreamed of you."

"Yes, I did. Do. I thought this was one of those dreams – you've never been able to see me before…" One of her fingers began to drum out a tuneless beat onto the wooden chest. "This is impossible."

"Clearly it is not impossible as it is happening," Jean said with a weak sort of chuckle.

"Unless this a dream," Clementine said, after letting out a short puff of breath. "Another dream. A very…detailed…dream."

"That's one explanation," Jean said, slowly. "Or…"

"Or what? I'm in 1832?" Clementine shook her head. "Now that _is_ impossible. Time travel is impossible."

He frowned at her. "Time travel?"

"You know, going to times that are not your own," Clementine said. "It isn't possible."

"You're from another _time_?" Jean could not help but gape at her. "How is that possible?"

"It isn't," Clementine said, a touch of exasperation in her soft voice. "That's what I'm trying to say."

"Where are you from, then, if you are not from 1832?" Jean wasn't sure he'd heard of such a thing before.

"I'm from 2013," Clementine said. "The twenty-first century."

"That – that isn't…possible," Jean said. His head was beginning to hurt. "If you're from – the future – how are you here? In my bedroom?"

She threw her hands up into the air. "I have no idea. I went to sleep. I thought it was a dream. This is happening inside my _head_ and yet – yet you're here."

The confused expression on Clementine's face would have been adorable if it wasn't for the fact he didn't understand what was going on. A huge part of him was delighted by her presence in his home, because this was _Clementine_, the girl he'd more or less been driving himself crazy with thoughts of. The rest of him, however, was completely perplexed, filled with a rush of emotions he could not begin to explain or piece together.

"How long have you been dreaming of me?" he found himself asking.

"A while," Clementine said, clearly hesitating. "I…I bought a book. Your book. And ever since…"

"My book?" Jean echoed, confusion evident even to his own ears. "I own a lot of books –"

"Aeschylus," Clementine interrupted. "It's a collection of Aeschylus' plays. You write in it and leave notes in it and I bought it for a couple of euros a few weeks ago."

He certainly owned a book fitting that description, but… "How could you buy _my_ book?" he said, puzzled.

"It was in a junk shop," Clementine explained. "I don't know how it got there, someone might have donated it or something. It had your name in it."

"I bet you know more about me then than I know about you," he murmured. His collection of Aeschylus plays went everywhere with him – he treated it as a diary, not just as a book to be read for pleasure. To think that this girl had read it, read his poetry, his notes and thoughts…It was almost like someone rifling through his life as far as he was concerned. Yet he could not bring himself to feel annoyed about the idea.

"This is…this is so strange," Clementine said, her voice breathless and turning into a somewhat hysterical giggle by the end. "I'm talking to _Jean Prouvaire_."

"Do you think it is possible for us to understand what is going on here?" Jean asked, watching as Clementine buried her face in her hands and then dragged her fingers through her hair.

Clementine bit her lip. "We can try to," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Do you…Do you ever get the feeling this means something?"

Jean blinked at her. "Of course," he said. "It must mean _something_. Otherwise it wouldn't be happening."

"That's what I thought," she murmured in response.

For a few moments, they surveyed each other. Jean tried to work out what the girl sat in front of him was thinking, but her face was completely blank.

"I've been given advice about you," she said eventually. "Not advice, really. More of a…I don't even know what I'd call it, actually. But it feels unavoidable. There's something I have to do, and it involves _you_, and…"

"I've been told a similar thing," Jean said. "But apart from that, I know nothing."

"I was told that –" Suddenly, Clementine pulled the strangest of expressions; her mouth pursed and her nose wrinkled, and her lips twisted into an odd shape. Her cheeks twitched with the movement, and then all of a sudden, she was breathing very deeply and making an odd keening noise at the back of her throat.

"Clementine?" He got to his feet again and crouched in front of her. He reached out and curled his fingers around her upper arms in a gesture that was supposed to comfort. Her flesh felt cool and soft beneath his palms, and she stared at him with wide eyes.

"I couldn't speak," she said. "It felt like my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth."

"Try not to say what you were saying, then," he suggested.

"But it's something you need to hear," she said. Her eyes were glistening and in that moment, Jean could tell that Clementine was on the verge of breaking. "Jean, I don't know what is going on," she whispered, voice scratchy to his ears.

He brushed his thumb over the curve of her shoulder. "We'll work it out," he murmured. "It might take time, but together we will find out what this all means, I promise you. And…Call me Jehan."

"Jehan?" she repeated. It was strange, for him, to hear that word from her lips. He'd heard her talk so many times in his dreams – shouting and teasing and flirting and arguing – but never saying his name.

"I prefer it to Jean," he shrugged. She was trembling beneath his hands, now. Yes, it was obvious this was all too much for her. "Wait a moment," he said, standing up and turning on the spot in one fluid movement. He stepped over to the bed and reached down, dragging one of his woollen blankets from the bed's surface. "Have this," he said, intending to wrap it around Clementine's shoulders.

But when he turned back, the girl from his dreams had vanished into thin air.


	10. The Revelation

**_Chapter Ten_**

**The Revelation**

Clementine woke from her dream feeling desperate to return. She'd always felt it was one of the worst feelings in the world, to wake from a lovely dream you were enjoying; to be snatched away from her conversation with Jean – no, Jehan – before they could even begin to talk felt like a hammer to the stomach.

To her amazement, it was daylight outside, even if she felt like she'd hardly slept a wink. She showered in an attempt to ease some of the grogginess she felt, but it didn't help. She went to lectures with her mind drifting back to Jehan, to the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands on her shoulders. Noémi seemed to notice that something was wrong but didn't say anything.

She couldn't wait to go to sleep that night. She even went to bed early, at around eight o'clock, but found that sleep itself didn't come for another three hours. She spent those hours tossing and turning, her limbs growing heavier as she found herself wanting to throttle her flatmates who didn't know the meaning of being quiet.

After making herself a cup of warm milk and honey (to the amusement of Sophie and Pauline, who were still sat in the kitchen playing Facebook games on their laptops), she finally succumbed to sleep.

She was back in Jehan's bedroom before she knew it, this time sat cross-legged on the bed. He was lying beneath the covers next to her, one arm flung over his eyes, and she kept very still for a few heartbeats.

"Jehan?" she tried, looking at the sleeping man. He didn't stir. She poked his shoulder gently. "Jehan."

He dragged his arm away from his eyes, and rolled over to face her, a soft groan leaving his throat.

"Jehan," she said, a little louder, and shook his shoulder. He awoke, his whole body jerking. When he saw her, looming over him, he flung himself away from her with a windmill of his arms, tumbling over the edge of the bed.

Clementine couldn't hold back the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of him, lying on the floor in a tangle of bed sheets. "I'm sorry," she said, crawling to the edge of the bed. He stared up at her with wide eyes. "I didn't mean to scare you."

His face relaxed from one of bewilderment to one of understanding, and began to rearrange the bed sheets so his legs were no longer wrapped up in them. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back tonight," he said.

"Neither was I, but I'd hoped I would be," she replied, reaching out a hand to him. "Want some help?"

He hesitated a few seconds before placing his hand in hers. His hand was bigger than hers, and it felt warmer, his palm very smooth. There were splotches of ink along the back of it and smeared across his wrist, before his arm was obscured by the sleeves of his nightshirt.

She backed up across the bed as she helped him to his feet. "Thank you," he muttered.

"Today has been the longest day of my life," she said, kneeling with her feet tucked beneath him. She rubbed her hands on her thighs, a sign of her agitation and excitement.

"And mine," he agreed, slowly lowering himself back onto the bed. He was staring at her as if he was a cat and she was a bird he was trying not to scare away. "Sorry," he said, after a few moments. "You disappeared very suddenly last night. I fear…"

"I woke up," she explained. "That's all. I didn't want to go. We still have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

He gave a small chuckle at those words, but there was very little humour in his laughter.

"Have you managed to get over your shock from yesterday?" he said.

Clementine nodded. The night before, she had felt sick and shaky, but today she only found herself feeling excited and pleased to see him again.

"It was just a bit unexpected," she said.

"That it was," Jehan agreed. "So, you said we had a lot to talk about…"

"Yes, we do." Clementine brushed her hair out of her face. "We've both been dreaming about each other, haven't we?"

"You, always you, usually with a man," he said. At the mention of the man, one of his eyes twitched. "You are in love with him, and he looks like me."

Clementine hadn't expected him to be so blunt. She raised her eyebrows.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said. "Certainly not one that looks like you."

Jehan bit his lip. "What do you dream of when you dream of me?"

"You, usually with your friends, in some building like a restaurant," she said.

"The Café Musain, probably," Jehan said, nodding. "We meet there a lot."

"That's funny, then," Clementine said slowly. "I dream of something you recognise, and _you_ dream of something I do not. What does it mean?"

Jehan's lips pursed together and he looked down at his hands, his fingers spread wide. "That is a very good question, Clementine, but neither of us can answer it, can we?"

Clementine twisted her fingers together. "Is it worth trying?"

"Another very good question."

"We must have to understand at some point – me, at least, because I have to make sure –" And then it happened again, as it had happened the night before; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. No amount of force could make her tongue move. It was like the muscle and flesh were fused together.

There was an alarmed look on Jehan's face and he put his hand on her shoulders again. "Whatever it is you keep on trying to tell me, stop," he advised in a soothing voice. "I do not understand much about this situation, but I understand I am not supposed to know what you have to say."

She stared into his bright blue eyes and felt her tongue unglue as the words she wanted to say to him left her mouth. _The woman said your verse must not end…and I know you're going to die…_

Her mind cleared a little. He was going to die, on the barricade, during a failed revolution, but Margaux had said his verse could not end – if his verse could be translated into _life_, which it so easily could, was her job to make sure he didn't die? But Jehan couldn't be told he was going to die – because that would be too easy. Too easy for whatever higher power was forcing this upon them.

She covered his hands, still resting on her shoulders, with hers. "I think I know what I'm supposed to do," she said. "But I can't tell you."

One side of his mouth quirked up in a sad, half-smile, and his thumb brushed over the back of her hand. "I must say, you have an unusual accent," he said, completely out of nowhere. She couldn't help but feel bewildered. "Whereabouts in France are you from?"

"I'm not," she said, her mind still half-focusing on her revelation. "I'm from England, but my grandmother is French. She's from Dieppe."

"You're English," he said. A quizzical expression flitted across his face. "But you live in France, yes?"

"I live in Paris at the moment," she said. "I'm at university."

His eyebrows raised into his hairline. "But you're a woman."

Clementine cocked her head to one side. "In the twenty-first century France, women are allowed to attend university just as men are," she said, clearing her throat and pulling away from his grip.

"Please, do not think I disapprove of the idea," Jehan said, in a reassuring voice. He let her slide away from his hands. "The opposite – I do not see why women shouldn't be educated as men are. It just – it surprised me – in a good way – to learn that, in your time, women _are_ educated."

"A lot has changed," Clementine said.

"For the better?"

"In some ways," Clementine said, cautiously. "But things are still changing."

"But progress is made?" Jehan urged. His eyes were searching her face.

"As I said," she replied, "Things are still changing, everyday."

For a few more heartbeats, all they did was stare at each other, without speaking.

"This is a puzzle, really, isn't it," Jehan said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "The whole thing."

Clementine nodded. "I've always hated puzzles," she said. "I'm too impatient for that. Same with mystery novels. I always want to read the ending. I used to, when I was younger – I'd read the end of the novel before I bought it, because if I didn't like the ending, I didn't see the point in wasting my money or time on it."

"But you're taking away one of the greatest pleasures of fiction," Jehan said. "When you know the ending, it loses its fun."

"Not always," she disagreed. "I remember, when I read _The Iliad_ for the first time, I'd already watched the film – wait, never mind. Have you read _The Iliad_?"

"Bits and pieces, but I know the story," he answered.

"Hektor is my favourite character," Clementine said. "After Andromache. I find their story beautifully tragic – the scene where they're together, with their son, made me feel so sad. And I knew he was going to die before I read the chapter where he died. The anticipation of _knowing_ what was going to happen just made it worse – the build up to it was worse because I _knew_ what was going to happen."

"I see what you mean," Jehan said, slowly. "I was touched by the story of Hektor and Andromache. The way she draws him a bath…"

"She didn't think he was going to die," Clementine murmured. "She thought he was coming home, and he was going to live."

Her nerves were fraught, they must have been, because she felt tears burning in her eyes at the very idea.

She felt Jehan's hand touch her cheek.

"It will be fine," he said. "Whatever is going on here – we will work it out."

"I know," she replied, even though her mind knew that this was not a matter of '_we_', but a matter of '_her_' working to save his life. If she could find out _how_ to save Jehan's life, she already knew with her whole heart that she would do everything in her power to make sure he lived.


	11. The Concern of Joly and Bossuet

**_Chapter Eleven_**

**The Concern of Joly and Bossuet**

**_Paris, 1832_**

"_Monsieur_ Prouvaire, would you mind if I sat with you?"

Jean looked up from his scribbling in his Aeschylus book to see Hélène smiling down at him.

She was a young grisette, working as a seamstress, and friends with Joly's mistress Musichetta. She often visited the Café Musain during the day, before the meetings began in the evening. She was a short woman, with a slender, gently curving figure, and a cloud of brown curls she had somehow managed to tame into a ponytail at the base of her skull. She stood before him today holding on to the shawl draped around her shoulders, her hands small and pale against the deep green of the fabric.

"Not at all, _mademoiselle_," Jean said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "It is late for you."

"Oh, I know," Hélène replied with a small smile, lowering herself into the proffered chair. "Musichetta said she would meet me here, but…" She gestured to somewhere over Jean's shoulder, and he turned to look. He saw Musichetta, a very pretty seamstress with auburn hair, leaning against one of the café's walls whilst talking to Bossuet and Joly. "They're a little preoccupied, as you can see."

A few seconds went by in a slightly awkward silence. Jean had spoken to Hélène a handful of times before; she often expressed an interest in whatever he was writing or reading, and seemed excited to prove that she was just as literate as he. Other times, she seemed to struggle to know what to say to him, and this was clearly one of those occasions. Still, it had never stopped her from trying to engage him in conversation.

"So, what are you writing today?" she asked, giving him a sunny smile.

He glanced down at the page and tapped his pencil against the tabletop. Clementine had claimed to own his own personal copy of Aeschylus' plays in the time she lived in, and he had wondered whether it could be a way for him to communicate with her. Hélène had actually caught him in the middle of writing a letter to Clementine, as a test, to see whether or not he could leave her messages in the book. He supposed he would find out that evening, as he had seen Clementine every night now since she had first appeared in his bedroom.

"Oh, something and nothing," he said, not sure he wanted to share this with Hélène, a woman he barely knew. The teasing he got off his friends was bad enough, after all.

As he finished speaking, he closed the book in case she tried to read it. He looked up at Hélène in time to catch the slightly disappointed look that flitted across her face. Feeling bad, he said, "It was just a reminder to…Buy something. A new book. A friend was discussing _The Iliad_ with me and I decided I wanted to read the full version."

"I've never heard of that," Hélène said. "What's it about?"

Jean let out a small sigh and prepared to explain, as briefly as he could, the plot of _The Iliad_. He was saved from this task by the arrival of Musichetta, who appeared next to their table accompanied by Joly and Bossuet.

"Are you ready to leave, Hélène?" Musichetta said.

Hélène raised an amused eyebrow. "As if it was me causing the hold up," she said, in a teasing voice. Her eyes slid from her friend back to Jean, and she stood up. She placed one of her hands on Jean's shoulder and squeezed. "You can tell me all about it the next time we see each other," she said. "_Au revoir_, _Monsieur _Prouvaire."

Joly took her vacated seat and Bossuet the one on Jean's other side as the two women left the café. Jean watched them leave, feeling the pressure of Hélène's hand on his shoulder. Then he glanced around to his friends. "What time does the meeting begin tonight?" he said.

"When the café closes, I suppose," Bossuet replied, picking at a loose thread on his waistcoat.

Joly, however, was staring at Jean with an amused twist to his mouth. "How was your conversation with Hélène?"

"I would hardly call it a conversation, Joly," Jean sighed, knowing where this was heading. "We talked for a few minutes whilst you said goodbye to Musichetta."

"What do you think of Hélène?" Joly pushed.

Jean sighed once more. "Joly, you really have no concept of subtlety."

"I'm not trying to be subtle, that's why," Joly said. "Musichetta confided in me the other night that Hélène finds you to be quite handsome."

Jean felt his face heat up at Joly's words. He cleared his throat and rubbed the side of his neck. "Does she?"

"She does."

He thought about Hélène, with her almost-black curls and petite form, that very sunny smile and sweet attempts to engage him in conversation. After not very long at all, his mind changed the small woman into one that was slightly taller, curvier in shape, almost plump, with a tangle of fair hair and freckles. Thinking of Hélène in these terms – considering her attractiveness, and responding to Joly's decision to tell him she was attracted to him – was beginning to feel like a betrayal to Clementine.

He shook his head. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You could try and look pleased," Bossuet suggested. "Hélène's pretty enough. Courfeyrac is desperate for her to show him some attention."

"Courfeyrac is desperate for any woman to show him attention," Jean said. "I think Hélène _is_ a nice girl, but…"

Joly groaned. "If you're going to start talking about that girl you dream of, I'm leaving," he warned.

"I wasn't," Jean insisted, even though he had been about to mention her. "She's not just that girl I dream of, she's –" He cut himself off, knowing deep down that it was not a good idea to mention the fact she'd been magically appearing in his bedroom every night for about a week. He swallowed. "It's – it's more complicated than that."

Bossuet and Joly stared at him, and then they exchanged slightly worried glances with one another.

"Maybe," Joly said slowly, "Hélène would distract you from your dreams."

Immediately, Jean shook his head. "No."

"Jehan –" Bossuet tried, but Joly pushed his chair out, the legs scraping loudly across the tiled floor. He stood up.

"No," he said, in the firmest voice he could manage. "I am not going to start chasing after Hélène. I'm not expecting any of you to understand what's going on, so just stop trying to give me advice about it."

"We just want to help," Joly said. "We're worried about you."

Jean picked up his book and tucked it underneath his arm. "Let me worry about myself," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Please, just – just leave me to it."

Spotting other friends of theirs gathering on the other side of the room, Jean turned around and walked over to join them, trying to force the combined images of Hélène and Clementine to the back of his mind.


	12. The Messages from Jehan

**_Chapter Twelve_**

**The Messages from Jehan**

_Clementine, _

_This is just a little test of mine. I was curious to see if I could communicate with you through this book, seeing as you claim to have the same copy in the future. I don't know how much use it will be for us, as I cannot think of a way for you to respond to these notes except when we see each other at night. But it will be interesting to see, either way. _

_I'm going to stop writing now because I have a meeting tonight with my friends. I'm just waiting for the café to close so we can go into the backroom. Do let me know if it worked when I next see you._

_Jean Prouvaire_

Clementine had been shocked to find the new note, written on a sheet of pale blue paper and tucked into the first page of the book. She knew she had never seen it before, but the handwriting upon it was unmistakably Jehan's. For a few moments, she sat there, stroking her fingertips over the dried ink, hardly daring to believe that he had finally written something about _her_ and she could read it.

"What's that?" a loud voice cut into her reverie, and she was jostled as Élodie slid into the seat next to her. They were in a lecture theatre. Élodie wasn't on the exact same course as Clementine, but they shared a couple of modules, including this particular one on gender in classical mythology; the presentation currently projecting onto the screen proclaimed the words _THE WEAVING WOMAN_ in bright yellow text.

"It's nothing," Clementine replied, as someone slid in to sit on her other side. It was just Noémi, but she was staring at the Aeschylus book with a look of complete and utter distrust on her face.

"It didn't look like nothing," Élodie pouted.

Clementine shut the book on top of the note from Jehan and then slid her book into her bag. "It's _private_, anyway," she stressed.

Élodie rolled her eyes. "You've become really odd since you bought that book," she said. "You're not much fun anymore."

Clementine rubbed her face and picked up her pen. "I agree with you," she said. "I know I'm not."

Élodie looked more than a little bit surprised at her admission, but instead of saying something, she for once shut her mouth and began to write down the lecture title in her notebook.

Meanwhile, Noémi was giving her a very pointed look.

"I know, I know," Clementine sighed. "I haven't got any excuses. I've started reading the book again. But, to be fair, I'm managing to get some sleep, so it's not really a big deal."

"It's still not healthy," Noémi countered. "I'm just curious as to whether your work is suffering because of that book."

"Don't be silly," Clementine retorted. "It's not distracting me _that_ much. In fact, I've managed to write two essays three weeks before the date they're due to be handed in, so I'm actually ahead of everyone else."

"That doesn't mean the quality is there." Noémi tucked some hair behind her ear. "I'm just saying – that book strikes me as being…"

Thankfully, their lecturer chose that moment to begin her class, ending their conversation there.

III

That night, she once more turned up in Jehan's bedroom. This time, he was wide awake and waiting for her, perched on the end of the bed, and she found herself sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

"I got your message," she said, without saying hello.

He looked pleased. "It worked, then," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I was worried it wouldn't. As I said in the message, I don't know how much help it will be, but…"

"It was nice," Clementine said. "To get a message off you – you know, for me. It brightened my day a little bit."

They were quiet for a few moments, just looking at each other. Then he cleared his throat. "I will be sure to leave more of them, then."

III

He did indeed leave more of them. Some of them were musings on life, others were snippets of poetry he thought she might enjoy reading; then there were accounts of his days, his interactions with his friends, and occasionally, details on their 'meetings'. He skimmed over the politics of what they discussed at these meetings, but she was grateful for that; she knew very little of the politics anyway so any more detail would have made no sense to her.

She understood some of the basics: Jehan and his friends were opposed to the monarchy, and hated the oppression of the lower classes by the elite. The latter took her right back to studying A-level Sociology at college and learning about Marxism, but she knew that wasn't enough to completely understand the goals of Jehan and his friends.

Whenever he did mention details of these meetings, however, her stomach sank. She thought back to when she first bought his book and she researched the June Rebellion of 1832. Some of his notes had mentioned barricades and the possible threat of fighting, and she'd seen him die in her dreams, seen him die so many times. Now she had spoken to him in person, so to speak, it made those dreams seem all the more horrific. She couldn't bear the thought of this quiet, gentle man being killed.

When they saw each other, Jehan was too busy quizzing her on her life for her to ask any questions about the barricades. He was fascinated by the life she led. He wanted to know all about her home in England, modern literature, the course she studied at university. She was sure he wasn't supposed to know some of the things she told him, but no supernatural force stopped her from doing so.

"It sounds wonderful," Jehan said one night, in a wistful tone. "I wish I could see your world. Those…what did you call them, those things that fly?"

"Aeroplanes," she supplied.

"That amazes me," he said, shaking his head. He gave her a conspiratorial grin. "I almost wonder if you're making it up."

"I promise you, I'm not," she said.

"So they fly…to other countries?" he said.

"Yes," she said. "Basically. And other places, too."

"Do people still sail?" he wondered. "I don't think I would sail, if I had the option of flying."

Clementine suspected Jehan's image of an aeroplane was a lot more fantastical than the reality. She said to him, "I came here on a boat, a ferry. Or I could have got the train."

"The train?" He looked mystified. "How…"

She explained to him how the Channel Tunnel worked, but the whole idea confused him on so many different levels that she decided to change the subject back to literature, a subject he seemed to feel much more comfortable discussing.

III

Clementine found herself in a very happy place. She slept well, considering she spent her dreams with Jehan; her studies were going well, and she relaxed by rereading Jehan's notes to her.

But then she received one note that brought her newfound happiness crashing down. In one of his messages, he happened to mention that it was nearing the end of May, meaning by her calculations, the June Rebellion was going to happen very soon, and she couldn't think of a way to stop it.

**A/N: A note about the mention of trains…I did research this a little bit, and I found that the first railway was built in France in (coincidentally) 1832, even though railways had been built in other countries (particularly Britain) earlier than that, so I'm not really sure whether Jehan would have known what a train was or not so that's why I went with the idea of him just being confused by the whole concept of the Channel Tunnel instead.**


	13. The Awkward Encounter

**_Chapter Thirteen_**

**The Awkward Encounter**

The night she received the message that mentioned the month of May was drawing to a close, she decided she would broach the subject of the barricades.

She'd never mentioned it first, even though it had always been there at the back of her mind. She'd always let him mention it, and had also avoided mentioning the dreams she'd had where he had died.

But now she'd realised that the date of the rebellion was drawing ever closer, she realised she had to bring it up at some point, especially considering the warning that _the verse of Jean Prouvaire must not end_.

Clementine went to sleep as early as she could, wanting to get the conversation over with as soon as she possibly could. She woke up in Jehan's room, on his bed, but alone. This hadn't happened since the first night she'd arrived; ever since then, he'd always been waiting for her, or already asleep.

She waited for a few minutes, wondering when he was going to arrive. The room was dark, with no candles or lamps lit, and the room was deathly silent and still. After a good fifteen minutes, curiosity got the better of her and she left his room.

The rest of his flat was small, sparsely decorated, but filled with books of all types. She found herself sat on an armchair by the window, flicking through a French translation of Jane Austen in the dark, wondering where on earth Jehan was. She tried her best to read the small print by the weak, pathetic light that came through the bare window, but it wasn't long before she had to give up on that venture and put the book to one side.

She was chewing on her thumbnail when she heard a door open and shut, and voices – more than one voice, all belonging to men, and all of them were familiar. She recognised Jehan's instantly, and knew that the rest probably belonged to his friends from the café.

There were a few brief moments where she panicked, uncertain of what she should do, but before she could even act on this panic the door opened and Jehan walked in, closely followed by four of his friends.

The room wasn't dark enough that she couldn't be seen at all, and there were a few noises of surprise from Jehan's friends. The man himself stopped in the doorway, mouth gaping open.

"Clementine?" he said, bewildered. "Are…I thought…_Shit_, I forgot the time!"

She'd had her feet up on the chair, her knees drawn up to her chest, and she quickly put them back down on the floor and sat forward.

"Sorry," she said.

In a very hurried fashion, Jehan lit some lamps, and that was when Clementine began to feel very awkward indeed. Jehan had seen her in skimpy nightdresses, so when she'd gone to bed that night in tiny shorts and a vest top she'd only thought that Jehan would see her – not four of his friends, two of whom were definitely ogling.

"I'm really sorry about this," she said, at first trying to pull the hem of her vest top down to try and cover her thighs before she realised it was revealing more of her chest. She gave up on the futile gesture and instead rested her hands on her knees. "Should I…?" she gestured in the general direction of his bedroom.

"I think Jehan should introduce us to his delightful friend," one of the men said, a curly-haired fellow with a wide grin.

"This…" Jehan put his hand to his forehead. "This is Clementine."

The room became tense all of a sudden as he spoke, and then he cleared his throat. "Clementine, this is Courfeyrac," he said, gesturing to the curly-haired man, "Bahorel," this time he indicated a broad man with a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, "Combeferre," now to a man with floppy hair and glasses, "and Joly," he finished, the final one being a tall, thin gentleman who kept on tapping his cane to his nose.

Jehan stepped closer to her, and his voice dropped a few octaves. "I really am sorry about this," he said, then his eyes dragged over her form. "Gods, I am sorry," he suddenly exclaimed, shrugging out of his frockcoat and handing it to her. She pulled it on, glad for the modesty and the warmth it brought.

He turned his back on her as she did so, clapping his hands together. "Maybe we should go to another room?" he suggested.

Clementine desperately wished she could just wake up. Unfortunately, it did not seem to be working that way for her tonight.

"I think we should stay right here," Courfeyrac responded in a singing voice, walking around Jehan and dropping down onto one of the threadbare couches. "So, Clementine, how did you meet our dear friend?" he asked, one eyebrow raising into his hairline.

"It's…" she stared at Courfeyrac. "It's complicated."

The other three joined Courfeyrac on the couches. All of them stared at her as if she had sprouted horns from her head, or wings from her back.

"Jehan has told us a lot about you," Combeferre said in what Clementine thought to be a diplomatic voice. "We had been wondering when we'd get to meet you."

"He's mentioned you a lot, as well," Clementine smiled, keeping her eyes on Jehan. He gave her an apologetic sort of smile.

Courfeyrac was staring at her with a curious expression on his face. "How complicated is the matter?" he said, in a tone of voice that suggested he did not quite believe her.

"We, um, bonded over Aeschylus," Clementine said, holding the frockcoat tight around her body.

Behind his friends, Jehan's eyes looked heavenwards. Combeferre smiled at her.

"You enjoy Aeschylus' plays, then?" Combeferre said.

"I don't mind him," Clementine replied. "But I'm more of a Sophocles girl myself. _Antigone_ is my favourite Greek play – no, tragedy, I suppose, overall I think I would say that _Thesmophoriazusae_ is my favourite play, possible misogynistic interpretation aside – I'm really sorry, I'm babbling, I do that when I'm…well, you know," she finished, feeling incredibly awkward.

"A classics fan, then," Courfeyrac said, clapping his hands together in a display of apparent excitement. "Has Jehan been teaching you Latin, then? Or possibly Greek?"

"He has no need to do either," Clementine responded. "I dare say I could teach him more about Ancient Greek than he could me."

"Bold words, there!" Courfeyrac beamed in Jehan's direction. "Where did you find her? I rather think I want one."

Clementine scoffed under her breath. "He didn't _find_ me anywhere," she said. "I also don't think that you're going to find someone else like me on the streets of Paris."

Jehan stepped closer, to stand next to her armchair. "I think you four should leave," he said. "This is a rather – unexpected situation, for all of us, and Clementine is very tired."

She was actually felling wide awake, but she was grateful for Jehan's attempt to make her feel more comfortable.

Combeferre got to his feet, closely followed by Joly. "We understand," Combeferre said, turning a rather pointed gaze upon the other two, who remained sat down. "We'll talk to you tomorrow, Jehan, carry on our discussion. Clementine, it was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too," Clementine said.

Bahorel grumbled under his breath as he stood up, folding his arms over his broad chest. Courfeyrac sighed heavily, but made no mood to stand up.

"You're no fun," he pouted in Combeferre's direction.

"Courfeyrac," the other man said, the one name spoken as a complete and utter warning.

Courfeyrac sat up in a manner that suggested it was a lot of effort for him to move. He held out one hand towards Clementine. She hesitated for a few moments, before shaking down one of the sleeves of the huge frockcoat she wore and putting her hand in his. She'd began to try and shake his hand, but she'd only moved their conjoined hands upwards once when he drew her hand up to his mouth and pressed the softest of kisses to the back of it.

Beside her, Jehan made a rough sort of noise in the back of his throat. Courfeyrac dropped her hand immediately.

"I hope to see you again, Clementine," Courfeyrac said. "As for you, Jehan, I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

Jehan showed his friends out of the house. Clementine could feel that her cheeks were flushed from Courfeyrac's unexpected attentions, and she shrugged off the frockcoat in an attempt to cool herself down. She draped it over her bare legs, and waited for Jehan.

He came back in rubbing his hands over his face. "I am _so_ sorry," he said.

"Stop saying you're sorry," she replied. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Jehan, it was my fault, I shouldn't have left your room."

"I wasn't expecting you until later," Jehan frowned. "But even then, I wasn't thinking. It slipped my mind…We were – talking about something important." She could still hear the note of an apology in his tone, and she rolled her eyes.

"Jehan," she said. "I don't mind. Besides, I found your friends entertaining."

The beginnings of a scowl passed over Jehan's face. "That is one word for it," he said. "But I wasn't particularly entertained."

Clementine smiled to herself.


	14. The Request

**_Chapter Fourteen_**

**The Request**

"I promise, tomorrow, I'll wear proper clothes," Clementine said over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to Jehan's bedroom.

"You don't have to," Jehan said quickly.

Clementine felt a blush creep up her neck from her shoulders to her cheeks. She paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at him, raising an eyebrow in some semblance of bravado intended to cover up her embarrassment.

"And I didn't mean it like that," Jehan hastened to add, catching her look. He stopped on the stairs, hand on the banister. "I just meant – I don't plan on them being here tomorrow – so wear whatever you feel comfortable in."

"Unless you forget again," she pointed out, putting her hand on his bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar, and pushing it open. "Let's compromise; I won't change what I wear and I'll just stay in your bedroom."

She backed up into the doorway, clasping her hands behind her back. Jehan stepped towards her.

"That sounds fair to me," he said.

He was very close, and in the dark, unlit hallway, his face was shadowy, his features obscured. But she could see his eyes, brilliant blue, and even though she couldn't see his mouth she could see the smile through his eyes. Her face grew warmer as her blush intensified the more he advanced.

Clementine cleared her throat and whirled on the spot, pushing the door open even further with her shoulder. His bedroom was dark, and she threw herself onto the bed as he began to light candles.

"As I said," Jehan said, his back to her, "We were having a discussion, and I was distracted. I can't begin to apologise enough – especially for Courfeyrac, he's too forward…"

"I wouldn't call Courfeyrac forward," Clementine said. "You should see how some men behave in the nightclubs where I'm from."

"How do they behave?" Jehan's voice was curious. She watched him loosen and remove his cravat.

She picked up his pillow and placed it on her lap, twisting her fingers into it. "Some of them like to put their hands everywhere," she said slowly.

"Everywhere?" He sat on the corner of the bed, frowning. "Do you mean they touch your body?"

"Yes, generally that's what I mean," she said. "When you're dancing in nightclubs, the dancefloors are very crowded and dancing is different, where I'm from, so it's not unusual to touch people in – shall we say, inappropriate places…But some men, some men can make things very uncomfortable. Back home in England, my friend Chelsey punched a man in the face because he wouldn't stop slapping my bottom."

Jehan's mouth screwed up. "I don't much like the sound of these nightclubs, or the men," he said, sourly.

She laughed. "Neither do I," she said.

"So why do you go there?" he asked.

"I can't let a few rotten apples spoil my fun," she said, shrugging. "It's much easier to just tell them they're doing something wrong and hope they get the message. Besides, not _all_ the men are like that; going back to my original point, a kiss on the hand from your friend Courfeyrac was rather tame in comparison."

"I see what you mean," he said, and then things became very quiet for a few moments.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Clementine said, quietly. "Please."

"That sounds very serious," Jehan said, trying a smile. "Is everything all right, Clementine?"

"Everything is fine, right now, but – but – I've read your book," she began. "Your notes, and well, I've talked to _you_ – and I can't help but notice you talk a lot about revolution."

Jehan's eyes narrowed a little, and something that resembled confusion passed over his face. "What of it?" he said.

She bit her lip. "I specifically wanted to speak to you about – barricades."

"Barricades? Do you mean the structure of, or the building of, or…?" She could see that Jehan was trying to make a joke about it, and she couldn't help but frown.

"Please, Jehan, don't joke," she said. "I'm being serious."

"I'm sorry," he replied, his face softening. "Go on."

"Will – I mean, I worry that – that your revolution – will turn violent." Clementine spat the words out in a rush, wanting them to leave her mouth. Once they were said out loud, she almost felt relieved.

"Yes," was all Jehan replied. There was no humour in his eyes, not anymore, and his expression was one that was very serious.

"You know it will, don't you?" Clementine whispered.

He glanced away from her. "I think that, when it comes to it, it will be unavoidable. It's not necessarily what I _want_, but…"

"So don't go," Clementine said, sitting forward. "Don't go – if it goes to the barricades, don't go with them."

"You mean abandon my friends?" Jehan shook his head. "I cannot imagine a worse idea. I couldn't do that. Besides, I –"

Clementine threw the pillow away from her and held her hands out towards him, as if she could implore him to listen if she could touch him. "Jehan, I refuse to see you as a violent person," she said. "You – I've read your poems – you write poems about _kittens_, Jehan!"

"One poem, and it wasn't – it wasn't a sweet tale – it was tragic," Jehan sighed.

"No, it wasn't, it was an adorable ode to a kitten frolicking in the sun," Clementine retorted sharply.

"It was incomplete," Jehan said. "_Is_ incomplete, I haven't finished it yet."

Clementine's heart dropped. The poem she spoke of had been there since she had bought the book, and not one extra word had ever been added to it. What if Jehan never finished his poem?

"The poem is irrelevant, Jehan." Clementine pressed her palms over her eyes. "My point _is_, I don't want you to go."

To her horror, she realised she was crying, hot, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Jehan looked at her with panic in his eyes.

"Don't cry," he said. "Why are you crying?" Jehan clambered over the bed towards her, his hands resting on her shoulders. One hand brushed her hair over her shoulder and then smoothed over her cheek.

"Please, don't go to the barricades," she whispered, leaning in to his touch. "Please, I'm begging you, Jehan, don't go to the barricades."

"I cannot – I cannot promise that," he said, his voice just as quiet as hers. His thumb brushed over the damp tracks over her cheeks.

"You could die," she said. Even to her own ears, her voice was breaking. The idea of him dying – of the visions she had of him being shot, his last words echoing around her head – was abhorrent to her, and she knew, _knew_ with every bone in her body that he couldn't die, shouldn't die.

"If I die, I die for _something_," he murmured. "It won't be meaningless."

"But I don't want you to die," she wept. "Put yourself in my shoes, Jehan. What if it wasn't you – what if it was me? How would you feel?"

"How would I feel about what?" he frowned.

"If I was putting myself in a life-threatening situation." She was banking on a lot, here, she knew, but it was the only thing she could think of to make him _see_.

"I – I – I…" He sat back on his haunches. The hand that still rested on her shoulder slid upwards to rest on her neck, his thumb brushing her jaw. His other hand now tangled in her hair, winding the fair strands around his fingers. "I would hate the idea," he said, and she could hear the honesty in his voice, written on his face. "I would do everything in my power to try and keep you away. But – that's different, Clementine. You're – you're –"

"A woman?" she guessed, and anger flared up. "Don't patronise me, Jehan. My gender – _your_ gender – it's all irrelevant. _You don't have to die_. There are other ways to make your mark on the world. You don't have to die."

His hands dropped from her, and she missed their warmth, the safety of their weight on her body.

"I'm dead by the time you are born," he said, quietly. "What is the difference to you?"

She blinked back more tears that threatened to spill, and said, "The difference is you dying a terrible, violent death someone with a heart as big as yours doesn't deserve."

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. She pressed her face into the soft cotton of his shirt, and let herself cry. His cheek rested against her hair, and then he was speaking into her ear. "That is life, though. Being a good person doesn't mean anything – bad things happen to good people every day, and it is because of that I want to fight, Clementine. To try and help, to try and make sure those bad things happen less and less."

"At least try and consider it," she mumbled into his chest. "Please. For me."

He rubbed her back, held her a little tighter. "For you," he said. "I will think about it. For you."

She knew, deep down, that these were just words of appeasement to try and comfort her, stop her from crying, but they _were_ what she wanted to hear, and in that moment, it was enough.


	15. The Amis React

**_Chapter Fifteen_**

**The Amis React**

_Paris, 1832_

Jean was dreading going to the café the next day. He knew that news travelled fast amongst his friends, even more so because Courfeyrac had been there, and he knew that there would be many uncomfortable questions.

Still, his worry over that matter was enough to take his mind of the eventuality of his night with Clementine. He hadn't expected her to request him not to go to the barricades if it came to it. He hadn't expected the sudden rush of tears that came from her. He hadn't expected the overwhelming feeling of protectiveness he had felt upon seeing her, weeping, curled up on his bed.

He knew he cared for her. He had noticed; he was not stupid. He enjoyed spending time with her, and he enjoyed their conversations. He liked listening to her talk about her world, which sounded fascinating to him, as well as hearing her opinions on literature. Jean found himself thinking of her during his waking hours, the small things that had nothing to do with the unusual situation they found themselves in and more to do with things like the way her hair fell over her shoulders and the dimple in her left cheek when she smiled and the way she gestured with her hands as she spoke.

He also had to consider the way he felt like punching his friends the night before for their wandering eyes. He didn't even want to think about how angry he got when Courfeyrac had kissed Clementine's hand.

Courfeyrac was the main reason he was reluctant to go to the café, as Courfeyrac was only rivalled by Grantaire in his ability to talk and tease; and more than that, it involved a _woman_. Jean hoped that Enjolras caught wind of it before it could really begin and make sure that it wasn't mentioned again. Their leader had very little time for such matters and usually became irritated by repeated mentions of romance during their meetings.

He arrived at the café before it had closed, so all of his friends were still in the front of the café; they were joined by Musichetta and Hélène, and waved him over as soon as he came through the door.

"Courfeyrac has been telling us all about last night's escapades," Bossuet said. Jean groaned internally.

"Oh, don't blush, Jehan," Courfeyrac sang, clapping him on the back as he sat down. "_Mademoiselle _Clementine was a charming young lady. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I'm not embarrassed," Jean shot back, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just don't understand why this interests you so much."

"It's because you've talked about _Mademoiselle _Clementine so much," Joly chipped in. "We all thought she was literally the girl of your dreams, but now we've seen her with our own eyes…"

"Now, now, Joly," Courfeyrac said, grinning, "It's _complicated_, remember?"

"Ah, yes, very complicated indeed," Joly said, matching the other man's smirk.

"How long has it been going on, then?" Bahorel demanded, waving his cup of wine around in the air.

"Just – a few weeks, that's all," Jean replied, "And it's really not what you're all implying it to be. We have mutual interests in certain fields and we talk."

"That doesn't sound very interesting," Joly said, wrinkling his nose.

"Maybe some men prefer intelligent conversation from their women," Jean said pointedly.

"Are you imply that my conversation isn't intelligent, Jehan?" Musichetta challenged, raising her eyebrows.

"No – _no_, I didn't mean to imply anything of the sort," Jean said. "I just meant that – Clementine and I – we're not – what I mean to say is, she is not my mistress, if that's what you're all thinking."

"You can forgive us for that mistake," Courfeyrac said. "If you consider how she was dressed and the fact she was in your house so late at night…"

"She didn't expect visitors, hence her clothes," Jean responded, feeling a little irritated that his friend remembered how much of Clementine's skin was on show.

"But it's all right for _you_ to see her in that way?" Bahorel gripped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "We all saw the way you reacted when Courfeyrac kissed her hand, so I'm not exactly buying this…_she's not my mistress_ idea you're spouting."

Jean cleared his throat. "I just didn't see a need for it, that's all."

"Excuse me," Hélène said in a quiet voice, getting to her feet. "I think it is time for me to leave."

The men around the table became very quiet as the woman briskly walked away from them, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Musichetta shot them all reproachful looks before hurrying after her friend.

Jean buried his head in his hand. "Thank you all for that."

"I completely forgot," Joly commented.

"Poor girl, she had about half an hour of us talking about _Mademoiselle_ Clementine," Bossuet murmured.

"Look on the bright side of things," Bahorel suggested. "Now you have two women to choose from."

III

Later that evening, once the main part of their meeting was over, Jean found himself sat alone with Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

"Are you going to be leaving soon, Jehan?" Combeferre asked, as they watched the crowds in the room dwindle somewhat.

"Probably," Jean said.

"I expect he'll be wanting to get back to Clementine," Courfeyrac said, looking in the ceiling in a manner that suggested he was trying to appear innocent.

"Please, don't bring this up again," Jean said. "I don't see how it is anyone's business apart from mine."

"Whilst I agree with you on that point," Combeferre said slowly, "I must admit on some level I am curious as to where she came from. One minute she is just the girl you dream of and talk about occasionally, but have never met, even though you want to – and then, suddenly, she is in your house."

"I didn't mention I had met her earlier because I wanted to save myself some grief," Jean admitted. "Between all of my friends I have talked of little else all evening."

"You can understand why we're curious," Combeferre said. "Where did you meet her, out of interest?"

"Around," Jean said, being deliberately vague.

"She is a funny thing to meet _around_," Courfeyrac commented. "She speaks French with an accent –"

"She's English," Jean said.

"Yes, and she apparently speaks Greek better than you and knows Latin on top of that," Courfeyrac continued. "I don't know many girls wandering the streets who can speak those languages. In addition to that, she had a favourite ancient Greek playwright."

"What is your point?" Jean said, feeling a little defensive.

"Courfeyrac's point is that Clementine's parents clearly sought to give her an education," Combeferre said, shooting Courfeyrac a pointed stare. "There is nothing wrong with that, at all."

"It's part of the reason she and I get on so well," Jean said. "We can talk about the same things."

"It's just unusual," Courfeyrac said. His face was, for once, completely serious as he looked at Jean. "It's like she has appeared from thin air."

_If only you knew_, Jean thought to himself. Instead, he said, "If I'm being honest with both of you, I don't really understand most of it myself. I'm just dealing with it as it happens."

He collected his Aeschylus book and tucked it beneath his arm. "Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going home," he said. "I don't particularly want to talk about Clementine again tomorrow, please."

"I'll consider it," Courfeyrac said. "If I'm feeling generous, she won't be mentioned."

Jean resisted the urge to hit Courfeyrac about the head with his book.

"Good night," he said, instead, nodding at his friends.

"Good night," they chimed in unison.

With that, Jean left the café.


	16. The Kiss

**_Chapter Sixteen_**

**The Kiss**

"Pauline, can I ask you a question?"

Clementine was sat in the kitchen, waiting for her tea (a plain cheese and tomato pizza) to cook. Her only company was Pauline, her least-favourite flatmate, who was currently painting her long fingernails a bright, sparkly pink.

"Yes," the other girl said, not looking up from her careful work. She swore under her breath as a small speck of nail varnish found its way onto the side of her thumb.

"It's about…men," Clementine began, carefully. Very slowly, Pauline's head raised and her eyes fixed on Clementine's, her eyebrows quirking in a surprised manner.

Relationships in general were not something often discussed in their flat. Noémi blushed and stammered in the presence of boys and Sophie was far too wrapped up in her politics and petitions to even notice that relationships were a thing. Élodie had apparently dated a girl the year before, but it hadn't lasted long and she hadn't seen anyone since. And then there was Clementine herself; she'd had one boyfriend, back in Year 10 in high school when she was fifteen. It had lasted three months, she had thought it was going to end in marriage, but it had ended rather quietly in a very flat manner and Clementine often forgot it had ever happened. She'd fancied plenty of boys since, but nothing had ever come of those crushes.

Pauline, on the other hand, had brought many men home since Clementine had met her. Sometimes she dated them for a couple of weeks; other times they were purely for one night. She didn't really mention any of them in conversation, but that was Pauline all over. She often kept things private.

But she was the only one that Clementine thought would be able to help. She had realised, after her attempts to persuade Jean Prouvaire _not_ to go to the barricade if it came to it (which she knew, without a doubt, it would), that she had definitely developed feelings for him. She needed to talk to _someone_, but Noémi wouldn't know what to say, Sophie wouldn't be interested, and Élodie would be _too_ interested.

Pauline, however, would strike a nice balance between being interested (because, despite being a private person there was nothing Pauline loved more than other people's lives) and not asking too many questions. The latter thing was what Clementine was banking on, as her situation was complicated and something that would definitely lead to people thinking she was crazy.

"Have you _met_ someone, Clementine?" Pauline asked, dipping the small brush back into the pot of nail varnish. She flapped one of her hands and blew hard on her nails.

"Not – not exactly," Clementine said. "Well, yes, I have, I suppose…But you don't know him."

"He's on your course, then?" Pauline wrinkled her nose as she rubbed at the speck of nail varnish with her finger.

"No."

Pauline looked up from her nails and said, "Does he go to the university?"

"No – as I said, you don't know him, he's from England," Clementine said. "I, uh, talk to him every night through…Skype."

"Right," Pauline said, slowly. "And you want to ask me what in particular…?"

"I think, I think I might like him," Clementine said, curling her fingers around the edge of the kitchen table. "We were – we were talking the other night and I got upset about – something, and I realised afterwards that I don't think of him as just a friend anymore."

"Hmm," Pauline said. She gestured with one hand. "Carry on."

"That's it, really," Clementine said, with a small shrug. "I think I like him."

"What did you want to _ask_, then?" Pauline screwed the cap on the nail varnish shut properly, and then drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

"I don't know what to do," Clementine said. "Do I tell him, or – hint at it? Or should I just stay quiet?"

"What would happen if you stayed quiet?" Pauline asked, turning her hand this way and that and staring at it with a speculative look in her eyes.

"We'd – we'd just stay friends."

"You like being friends with him," Pauline said. "Obviously."

"Yes, of course I do."

"So if you told him, you might ruin your friendship," Pauline said. "If you don't tell him, nothing changes. Everything stays the same."

_Yes_, Clementine thought in her head, _but telling him that I _like_ him might give me the leverage I need to get him to stay away from the barricades_.

"But he could like you too," Pauline continued. "So hinting at it might work. That way, he can take it upon himself to tell you he likes you and you don't have to feel guilty for being the one that changed things."

Clementine nodded. "Yeah. But how do I go about _hinting_ that I like someone?"

"Clementine, you're asking the complete wrong person about subtlety," Pauline snorted. "I'm the girl that walks up to men and asks them if they want to come home with me. I know nothing about hinting. You'd be better off asking Noémi if you want subtlety."

"What would you do, then?" Clementine tucked some hair behind her ear.

"I'd probably just tell him outright," Pauline admitted. "That way there are no mixed message or signals and you both know where you stand." She paused. "I can see by the expression on your face that is not the answer you were hoping for."

Clementine shoved her chair backwards and got to her feet, reaching out for the oven gloves that lay on the countertop. She put her hands inside them and opened the oven.

"I don't really know what I wanted you to say," she said. "But…thank you, anyway."

Pauline stood up as well, collecting her nail varnish bottles into her hands. "Glad I could help."

III

That night, Clementine went to sleep and as usual found herself waking up in Jehan's bedroom. He was already there, scribbling in his book which was rested on his lap.

"Good evening," he said, grinning broadly as he saw her, sat on the chest under the window. She stood up and crossed the room to sit beside him on the bed. As she promised that night, she was wearing long pyjama pants and a normal T-shirt.

"How has your day been?" she asked, pulling a hair tie off her wrist and looping her hair up into a ponytail.

"Boring," Jehan answered. "Not much happened. But we have a rally tomorrow, so that should be interesting."

Silence stretched out between them at the mention of the rally. She cleared her throat. "Is it about anything in particular?"

"We'll be handing out pamphlets, and Enjolras will be giving a speech," Jehan said. "It's just to make people aware of our cause."

"So it – you know." She wriggled her shoulders, feeling uncomfortable under Jehan's scrutiny. "Will this turn violent?"

"It shouldn't," Jehan said. "It's not going to end with us building a barricade, if that's what you're worried about."

She glanced down. "I am worried about it," she admitted. "But you know that."

His hand reached out and rested on the side of her neck. "Try not to," he said, voice low. "It might not even come to it. And we shouldn't worry about something before it has even happened, should we?" His features softened. "I don't like to think of you worrying about me."

Clementine took a deep breath inwards as he spoke, a war going on her head as she debated what to do. She opened her mouth, wanting the words to come out, but her tongue wouldn't move.

She thought of what Pauline would do. She knew what Pauline would _really_ do, of course; she'd already have told him, and probably moved on, by now.

Clementine bit her lip. "What the hell," she muttered under her breath, and then leaned her head forward and pressed her mouth against his.


	17. The Love Conquers All Sentiment

**_Chapter Seventeen_**

**The Love Conquers All Sentiment**

**_ Paris, 1832_**

Clementine was kissing him.

He wasn't sure what to do. He'd kissed women before – not many, he was no Courfeyrac, but he'd had relations with women in the past – but this was different. This was completely unexpected. It wasn't necessarily something that he didn't want, either; in actual fact, he'd been waiting for it to happen, he'd just never thought she'd be the one to initiate the kiss.

Her lips were soft against his, and they tasted sweet, like sugar. He kissed her back, opening his mouth to trace the seam of her lips with his tongue. He slid his hand up from the side of her neck to cup her jaw, tangling his other hand in her fair hair, the flaxen strands winding around his fingers.

She moaned against his mouth and inched forwards, pressing her body flush against hers. He pulled back in surprise, still not expecting her to be so forward; before he knew it, he was lying on his back on the bed, her hands on his face. He was aware of her hands leaving his face and playing with his cravat, loosening it.

He placed his hands over hers and, as gently as possible, pulled her hands away. He tipped his head back, ending their kiss. The expression on her face was adorable, he reflected; she looked a little bewildered, her eyes blinking fast and her lips still pouting.

"Clementine," he said, feeling a little breathless. He wasn't sure if the breathlessness was from the actual, physical kiss or whether it was from the fact she was so close to him and her hands were lying flat on his chest. He could feel the heat of them through the cotton of his shirt.

"Yes?" she said, biting her lip. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked glossy.

He went quiet, not sure what to say. She was still sat over him, her knees aligned with his hips. He placed his hand on her cheek again, and brushed her hair out of her face with the same movement.

"Did – did I do something wrong?" she asked, leaning into his touch.

"Not at all," he replied. "I was just a little surprised."

Her blush deepened, and she ducked her head. He bit his lip. With the softest of touches, he brushed his fingers under her chin in an attempt to lift her head up so he could meet her gaze.

Their eyes did meet, and he kept his eyes firmly on her and slowly sat up. They were pressed flush against each other, so close, that he could probably count the freckles on her cheeks and count each individual eyelash ringing her eyes if he wanted to.

She let out a small sigh as he brushed his hand through her hair. She tipped her head forwards, resting her forehead against his.

"We're in a mess, aren't we?" she murmured.

"I wouldn't call it a mess," he said. "That implies this is a bad thing."

She looked at him with big eyes that were trying to tell him something, but he couldn't work out what. She smiled. It was a sad smile, and it cut through him like a knife. He opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head.

"This isn't a bad thing," she whispered. "_This_ isn't a bad thing. But it doesn't mean it's not messy."

"Complicated," he corrected. "It's just complicated…"

"Complicated is a complete understatement," Clementine said, resting her hands on his shoulders and neck. "We're from different _times_, Jehan. I…I'm from the year 2013. You…You're from 1832. We are separated by over…nearly two hundred years. That's so many years."

"And yet, here we are." He wound strands of her hair around her fingers, gold against pink. "Somehow, we're together. I can't begin to understand how or why you're here, Clementine, but you _are_ and we…We undoubtedly have feelings for one another. Isn't that enough?"

"Enough?" Clementine closed her eyes. "Is this some…_love conquers all_ sentiment?"

"Something like that," he admitted. "Gods, that sounds…"

"_Cheesy_," she said, but he had no idea what that word meant. He cleared his throat.

"What I mean to say is…Just because it's _complicated_ doesn't mean it can't work."

"Doesn't it?" She opened her eyes. "I would say that being separated by nearly two hundred years and only being able to communicate through dreams and a book of Aeschylus plays is a very big –"

He kissed her, taking the words out of her mouth before she could say them. He peppered her mouth with soft, light kisses until she stopped making any effort to speak.

"Don't be negative," he whispered. "It's happened for a reason." He let go of her hair, and covered her hands with his, linking their fingers together. "Something – some _force_ – is forcing us together. Why should we fight it just because it's complicated? That something has given us a way to meet each other – why won't it find us away to be together?"

As he spoke the words, his lips brushing against hers, he realised that was what he wanted. Somehow, he wanted _Clementine_. He wanted to be with her, whatever that would mean for them.

She squeezed his hands, and she opened her mouth to say something. But then, all of a sudden, she was fading away from him until she wasn't there any longer. He sat, almost feeling like he had lost a limb; but he wasn't sure whether this feeling of loss stemmed from the lack of her presence or the fact that their conversation wasn't over yet.

III

**_Paris, 2013_**

Clementine woke up, blinking. Her eyes burned and felt damp as her lids closed; all she could think of was Jehan, and his small, kind smile, hands smoothing her hair, the feeling of being sat on his lap whilst he said such sweet things to her.

_That something has given us a way to meet each other – why won't it find us away to be together_?

There had been a confidence in his words that she desperately wanted to mean something; she wanted those words to be true.

_Why won't it find us away to be together_?

She blinked away the hot tears, dashing them off her cheeks with her hand as she sat up.

What if that was what this was all about? Them, being together? She thought back to her meetings with Margaux the fortune teller; _the verse of Jean Prouvaire must not end…you will not be happy if his verse ends_.

What if that was what the fortune teller had meant? What if Jehan wasn't supposed to die because he was supposed to be with her?

These thoughts racing through her head, Clementine jumped out of bed and began to get dressed, a plan forming in her mind.


	18. The One

**_Chapter Eighteen_**

**The One**

After throwing on a pair of leggings and a dress over the top, Clementine put on her shoes and grabbed her bag from where it sat on her desk chair. She checked to make sure that everything she needed was inside it – her mobile phone, her purse, Jehan's book – and then she swung it over her shoulder and left her room, locking the door behind her.

It had been very warm out for the past few days and she knew that she'd want a drink sooner or later when she was out, so she decided to stop and fetch a bottle of water from the kitchen.

To her surprise, Noémi was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. "Morning," she said.

"Morning," Clementine replied. She opened the fridge, ducking down to get a bottle of water from her shelf.

"You're leaving already?" Noémi lowered a spoonful of cereal back into the bow before her, a frown marring her brow. "Our class isn't for another hour yet, you've not even showered…"

Clementine shut the fridge door and tucked the cold bottle into her bag. "No, I know," she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hadn't even bothered to brush her hair in her hurry to leave the flat. She dragged her fingers through her hair now, hoping to rearrange it into an acceptable state. "I'm not going to class, I'm going out."

"Out?" Noémi looked puzzled. "But you _are_ coming back for class, aren't you?"

Clementine shrugged. "Uh, I'm not really sure," she said. "It depends on how things go. I've got some things to do."

"You can't miss class," Noémi objected. "You've _never_ missed class – not once, not since you've moved here!"

"I'm not intending to, but I might run a bit late," Clementine said. "I'll just slip in at the back, no one will notice."

Noémi looked like she was going to complain a bit more so Clementine waved her hand at her. "I'll see you later," she promised, before hurrying out of the flat.

III

She had worried that it would be too early for the fortune teller's to be open, but it was. Margaux was sat behind the counter, today wearing an oversized, red velvet top with short sleeves; her hair was in two long braids, and from one ear hung a spoon, and from the other hung a fork. A yellow scarf was tied in a bow around her neck.

"I had wondered when I would see you next," Margaux said, drumming her bright blue fingernails on the countertop. "Come through."

In the small back room, Clementine sat down on the overstuffed green chair. Margaux drifted past her, her floor-length black skirt dragging over the wooden floorboards.

"How have you been?" Margaux said.

"I'm fine," Clementine said.

"I must say, you do look happier now," Margaux commented, lowering herself into the wooden chair opposite the round table. "But I guess that's what the first blossoming of love does for a girl."

Clementine felt her cheeks heat up. "I wouldn't call it _love_."

"No, neither would I," Margaux said, a gleam in her eye. She leaned her elbows on the table and linked her fingers together, her numerous golden rings clinking together. "It is much more complicated than that. Too often do you normal people dismiss feelings as _love_ when there could be so much _more_ involved."

"Well, that's why I'm here," Clementine said. "I want to ask you about…Jehan and I."

"Jehan," Margaux echoed. "You call him _Jehan_. How sweet."

"He prefers it," Clementine explained. "His…his friends call him Jehan. That's what he said."

"And he's quite right, they do." Margaux examined her thumbnail. "So, what is it you wanted to ask? Specifically, I mean."

"Last night – when I was talking to Jehan – he said that something has forced us together, so it must be able to find a way for us to be together," Clementine let out in a rush. "Is he right?"

"That's not what you want to know," Margaux responded. "There is another idea in your head, Clementine. Why don't you say it out loud? This might be your only chance."

Clementine stared down at the tabletop. She cleared her throat. "Is…Is my…_job_, the whole reason for me meeting Jehan – is it because he's – I feel so silly for saying this – _the one_?"

"The one," Margaux repeated, a small smile playing on her bright, cherry-red lips. "Are you referring to soul mates? Are you asking if he is your _other half_, the person you're destined to be with?"

The blush on Clementine's cheeks deepened considerably. Her face felt too hot to bear. "I suppose that's what I'm asking, yes," she said. "Oh, but it sounds so _silly_ when you say it out loud. I'm twenty. I'm…I'm too young for this. I haven't even finished my _degree_ yet and I'm in love with a man from another century."

"Stranger things have happened," Margaux said, waving one hand in a dismissive way. "Don't feel embarrassed about it. So that is the reason you came here? You want to know the answer to what your purpose is?"

"Yes."

"I told you that you would not be happy if the verse of Jean Prouvaire ended," Margaux said. "Did you decipher the clue?"

"I…I thought it meant he couldn't die," Clementine said. "At the barricades, or whatever it is that's going to happen to him –"

"You were right when you said the barricades," Margaux said. "So you have deciphered the clue to mean that _you_ must stop Jean Prouvaire from dying, otherwise, you will not be happy."

"Pretty much." Clementine pushed her hair out of her eyes. It sounded so silly to her own ears.

"And then your final question _is_ does this mean Jean Prouvaire is your soulmate," Margaux continued.

Clementine swallowed.

"The answer to that question lies with you, not me." Margaux sat back in her seat, laying her hands flat on the table. "It depends on what you believe _happiness_ entails. If you think it means finding the one…"

"I've never really thought about it," Clementine admitted. "But…I've always thought I'd get married and have children and find _the one_…So I've no reason to think that isn't what would make me happy."

"There is your answer, then." Margaux cocked her head to one side. "Ensuring that Jean Prouvaire doesn't die means you live your life with _the one_ and you are happy. That is your job."

She leaned over the table, her eyes widening a fraction. "Well done, Clementine, you cracked the code," she said. "Now, do me a small favour: get Jean Prouvaire's book out of your bag and check page 100."

Clementine frowned. "But…"

"Just do it," Margaux commanded.

Without speaking, Clementine reached for her bag and pulled out Jehan's copy of Aeschylus' plays. She flipped to the hundredth page of the book, making sure that none of the numerous notes that now filled it since Jehan had started leaving her messages fell out.

And there it was, what Margaux obviously wanted her to see. Scrawled in the middle of the page, over the top of the text, a passage from _Seven Against Thebes_.

_GENERAL LAMARQUE IS DEAD_

She read the message again, and then again, and then too many times to count; her mind raced at a million miles an hour. "But didn't…didn't his death prompt the rebellion?" she asked, her question quiet.

She looked up at Margaux. Margaux pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and shrugged, all in one movement.

"I suggest you go home and find out," she said. "Until we meet again, Clementine."


	19. The Broken Rule

**_Chapter Nineteen_**

**The Broken Rule**

"_Just now, I was preparing to start with heavy fighting  
And violent war, with a measure to fit the matter.  
Good enough for lesser verse, laughed Cupid  
So they say, and stole a foot away.  
'Cruel boy, who gave you power over this song?  
Poets are the Muses', we're not in your crowd.  
What if Venus snatched Minerva's weapons,  
While golden Minerva fanned the flaming fires?  
Who'd approve of Ceres ruling the wooded hills,  
With the Virgin's quiver to cultivate the fields?  
Who'd grant long-haired Phoebus a sharp spear,  
While Mars played the Aonian lyre?  
You've a mighty kingdom, boy, and too much power,  
Ambitious one, why aspire to fresh works?  
Or is everything yours? Are Helicon's metres yours?  
Is even Phoebus' lyre now barely his at all?  
I've risen to it well, in the first line, on a clean page,  
The next one' weakened my strength:  
And I've no theme fitting for lighter verses,  
No boy or elegant long-haired girl.'  
I was singing, while he quickly selected an arrow  
From his quiver, to engineer my ruin,  
And vigorously bent the sinuous bow against his knee.  
And said, 'Poet, take this effort for your song!'  
Woe is me! That boy has true shafts.  
I burn, and love rules my vacant heart.  
My work rises in six beats, sinks in five:  
Farewell hard fighting with your measure!  
Muse, garland your golden brow with Venus' myrtle  
Culled from the shore, and sing on with eleven feet!  
- _Ovid, Amores, 1.1: The Theme of Love

Clementine returned to her flat, forgetting the fact she had lectures. She looked up the rebellion once more on her laptop. It was a new message, she was sure of that; she'd never seen it before. And from what she read, there was now only a few more days until the barricades would rise and Jehan would die.

Hours later, and she was in a panic. She tried to distract herself by reading or doing work, but it was to no avail. When Élodie knocked on her door to ask where she'd been, she ignored her; when Noémi tried a few hours later, she called through that she was fine and she wanted to be on her own. She heard Pauline tell them all it was probably _boy troubles_ and was grateful that seemed to be enough to get them all to back off.

By half past seven, she'd had enough. She went for her evening shower in an attempt to cool down and then went straight to bed.

It seemed to take days to fall asleep. Her mind was running over time. She knew that the panic she was in was silly, as there was still a few days to speak to Jehan and she was in no rush, but she just wanted to see him, wanted to _tell him_…

Finally, sleep came, and then she was in Jehan's bedroom. It was dark, and he was not there.

She sat, waiting. She felt restless. She changed her position what felt like a hundred times, stretching herself across the width of the bed sometimes, and then hugging her knees to her chest at others. She lay on her stomach, her sides, her back; sat cross-legged, kneeled, crouched, sat with her legs stretched out in front of her.

No position felt entirely comfortable. She resorted to chewing on her nails, a habit she'd long outgrown except on occasions when she felt nervous. She'd last bitten her nails during her first university exam period when she was struggling to revise.

Trying to take her mind off her agitation she began to recite literature in her head. She began with her favourite Shakespeare quotes, but soon couldn't remember anymore; she recited some Catullus to herself, then some Ovid, then going back to the 16th century to repeat Faustus' speech on Helen of Troy from _Doctor Faustus_…

She had just begun to recite the dialogue from the scene in _Doctor Faustus_ where Lucifer presents Faustus with personifications of the Seven Deadly Sins when she heard the sound of a door opening and slamming and then footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, the door to Jehan's bedroom was flung open and the man himself burst in, looking frazzled. He had a bag over his shoulder which he promptly dumped onto the bed before dragging his hands through his hair.

"Did you get my message?" he asked, without saying hello.

"General Lamarque is dead," Clementine guessed.

"Yes," Jehan said. "You do realise what that means, don't you?"

"I think I have some idea," Clementine said.

"Of course you do." Jehan sat on the bed, next to his bag. "You're from the future; of course you know what's going to happen."

She crawled to kneel beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She didn't speak.

"It's what we've been waiting for," he said, at last, eyes downcast.

"Yes, it is," she murmured. "But it's not too late to back out..."

He glanced at her. "I know it's not," he said. "Believe me, Clementine, I have thought about your request for me to not follow them. But I cannot do that. I cannot. I must go."

"You're scared," Clementine whispered. "I can see it in your face."

"Of course I'm scared," Jehan said. "It…It might not work out for us…It could go so badly wrong and that scares me, of course it does, but if every man ran from what scared him nothing would ever get done."

She pressed his face into his shoulder. "I can't persuade you," she said. "Can I?"

"I do wish you could," Jehan admitted. "I wish it was that easy."

Clementine felt tears falling softly down her face. She let them seep through his clothes rather than try and wipe them away. "So there is nothing, nothing I can do, or say…" Her voice broke. "Jehan, I can't be happy if you – if you…"

He rested his head on hers, and she felt his lips ghost over the spot above her ear. "I might not die," he said. "Things like this have happened before – it is no guarantee of death, Clementine. Please, don't cry."

But she did cry, because the idea of him dying cut her to the bone. She was aware that she was kissing him, and was sure he could taste the saltiness of her tears on his lips. She broke away.

"I love you," she found herself murmuring in her native tongue. She knew he couldn't speak English, but there was something on his face that suggested he understood what she had said.

"I love you," he replied.

III

The following evening, Clementine went to sleep. But this night was different. She did not see Jehan, but she did see his death; heard those horrible cries of _long live the future_ and _vive la France _and the sound of gunfire and she woke up sweating. The night after was exactly the same, only the dream decided to show her Jehan's face close up as the life drained out of his face.

She woke and vomited in the sink in her room. She wanted to see Jehan, wanted to see him desperately, but her dreams were no longer taking her to 1832 to see him. Did that mean she had failed? Did that mean he would die?

Unable to bear these thoughts, she decided to go to the fortune teller once more. She knew she looked terrible, as she threw her unwashed hair into a ponytail and put on yesterday's clothes, but she hardly cared. She was grateful that none of her flatmates were up and about when she slipped out of the flat, because she didn't know what she would say to them.

She didn't have to go far, because Margaux was waiting on the grass outside their building. She wore a long black dress decorated with thousands of glittering black beads, and black leather gloves covered her hands.

"Have I failed?" Clementine burst out.

"Not yet," Margaux said, keeping her eyes on the pale, watery blue sky above them. "There is still time. Another twenty-four hours, roughly…"

"What can I do?" Clementine demanded, clenching her fists. "I have not been able to visit him in my dreams anymore –"

"Fate thought you needed an incentive to try harder," Margaux said, and then hummed under her breath. "Do you know why I am wearing black, Clementine?"

"No," Clementine bit out. "And I have tried. I've tried as _hard as I can_ –"

"I'm wearing black in preparation of Jean Prouvaire's death," Margaux interrupted. "I will tell you the truth, now, Clementine. People die every day. But some of the people that die should not have died. When they die, it means that other things do not happen. And it is the job of people like me to make sure those things happen, and to do that, I have to meddle in the lives of people like you. Jean Prouvaire is what I call a _loose thread_. He dies and nothing happens that _should_ happen. My job with you was to tie the loose thread that is Jean Prouvaire."

"Tell me what to do," Clementine said. "Please. Tell me, and I will do it. I don't want him to die!"

"A wonderful sentiment," Margaux said. "I am doing this for _you_. Remember that, Clementine Evans. This is for you, and for Jean Prouvaire, so you can be happy." She sighed. "Ah, Fate will be furious with me for what I am about to do – it breaks all the rules – but it must be done."

And then she lunged at Clementine. Clementine felt a palm slam into her forehead, and then everything went black.

**A/N: We're not long off the end now...**

**And a note about the poem I used at the start. I chose this poem because it represents some unmentioned thoughts I have about Clementine and Jehan's relationship; they never meant to fall in love, as was the case of the narrator of Ovid's poem. It's generally the poem I think of when I think of this story actually...**


	20. The Barricades Arise

**_Chapter Twenty_**

**The Barricades Arise**

Clementine opened her eyes. She was in a cramped alleyway, and she could hear shouting and the sound of running footsteps somewhere in the distance.

"Clementine," a familiar voice said, and she turned to look into Margaux's face. It definitely _looked_ like Margaux's face, that is, but there was something very different about her. Her red hair was darker than normal, matted with grease and grime and forced into a braid that hung over one shoulder. She wore a filthy, ragged dress that had probably once been grey or maybe even white; it was hard to tell. The boots she wore were falling apart, and her skin was ingrained with dirt.

"Where am I?" Clementine asked, staring around herself. It was too warm; she felt like she was burning beneath her clothes. Of all the days she'd decided to wear jeans and it had to be this one. She shrugged out of her hooded jacket, draping it over one arm.

"You're in Paris still, in 1832," Margaux told her. "You've been here before, although it has been…different. Before you were not truly, physically in 1832. People could see you and interact with you, but you could not have left Jean Prouvaire's home, or be hurt, or change your clothes or appearance, or change anything physical. It was more your spirit, your _essence_ that was in 1832. Now your physical self is here, because you must physically make a change." She glanced over her shoulder. "But this is not where you need to be. Come on. Follow me."

Margaux set off at a brisk trot and Clementine hurried after her. They left the alley and turned out onto a larger street, filled with people running. Clementine shrieked as a chair suddenly slammed into the ground in front of her, a leg breaking off. Margaux grabbed her arm tightly. "Be careful, girl," Margaux hissed. "They're building a barricade – do you _want_ to die by falling piano?"

Margaux did not let go of her, instead taking hold of her hand and pulling her through the crowds of people. They were busy and frantic and no one took any notice of the two women running together.

Then they turned onto a street and Margaux slowed down. At the end of the street was a building, the sign above its door boldly announcing it was the _Musain_. In front of it people were assembling a collection of furniture and a carriage and there were so many people, so much shouting, so much movement.

"There you go," Margaux said, letting go of her hand. "Now, be careful. Don't get yourself _killed_, or you'll ruin everything."

Clementine whirled around to look at her again but Margaux was gone and she was alone, alone in a different time and an unfamiliar setting. She knew the basics of Paris but that was modern Paris. This might as well have been an entirely different country for everything she knew –

"Clementine? Is that you?"

Jehan was coming towards her, his brow furrowed, his face entirely confused. She flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his body and peppering kisses over his face. He pushed her away, held her at arm's length.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Clementine said. "Margaux – she's – she's a fortune teller – she made me come here..."

"You can't stay," Jehan said. "It's dangerous, Clementine, this whole situation…it is dangerous for you."

"It's dangerous for you two but here you are," Clementine challenged.

"Jehan," another voice cut in. "Jehan, come on." It was one of the men she'd met that night, but she wasn't sure which one, couldn't remember his name.

"I'm coming, Combeferre." Jehan took her by her arm and tugged her towards the barricade that was being built. They worked their way around it and then he was taking her inside the café behind it. He took her by the shoulders. "You must leave. _It isn't safe_. You could be hurt."

"And so could you," Clementine insisted. "That is not an excuse that will work on me!"

"Whilst I find this scene touching in some ways, I do think this is the wrong time!" the curly-haired man she recognised as Courfeyrac boomed, clapping his hand down on Jehan's shoulder. "Send your mistress away, Jehan, and help us finish off –"

"I'm _not_ his mistress and I will _not_ be _sent away_," Clementine said fiercely, clenching her hands into fists.

"Courfeyrac is right," Jehan said. "You must go."

"I have nowhere _to_ go," Clementine hissed. "I have no home here and I don't know how to get back to your house. I'm staying!"

"Musichetta and Hélène are not so far away," a dark-haired man with a cane tucked beneath his arm chipped in as he sidled past, carrying a chair with one hand.

"See, you could go with them," Jehan said. "They're nice women."

"I don't care," Clementine said, folding her arms over her chest. "I'm staying _here_."

"This is no place for a woman," Jehan said. "Have you ever fired a gun?"

Clementine snorted. "Have you?"

A dark-haired man with a large nose sat at one of the remaining tables behind them snorted loudly and waved what looked like a bottle of wine in their direction. "She has you there, my friend," the man said in a loud voice.

"I don't want you to stay," Jehan whispered, ignoring her. His hand touched her cheek for a brief, gentle moment.

"It is not your choice to make," Clementine replied in just as quiet a voice. "For whatever reason, Margaux sent me here and told me to come to you. I can't just leave you, not…not today."

His eyes went from quite soft to hard in a matter of seconds as he looked down at her. "You could be hurt," he said.

"I'm well aware of that," Clementine said, her heart beating fast. All around her was chaos and she could see people carrying guns and weapons. She'd never, ever been in a situation like this before – the closest she had got was accidentally running into protests against student tuition fees back home when she was seventeen or eighteen, and whilst that had been scary at the time it was nothing on this scale.

"Fine," Jehan said, in a low voice, before walking away.

**A/N: I went away this weekend to a place with no internet connection and I managed to finish this story completely. One or two chapters need a bit of tweaking to make a bit more sense, but it is done, and will probably be updated once a day now. There are six more chapters to go.**


	21. The Waiting

**_Chapter Twenty One_**

**The Waiting**

Night had fallen on the barricades, and Jean felt like he was losing his mind.

They were waiting for the spy Enjolras had sent to find out the enemy's plans to return. As of yet, there had been no fighting, which Jean was grateful for considering the presence of one overly stubborn woman currently sat in the doorway to the Musain, folding a crumpled piece of paper into various shapes.

His heart had nearly stopped hwen he had seen Clementine just a few hours earlier. He knew he wanted her nowhere near the barricade – he wanted her safe in her own time – but she wasn't going anywhere. She'd made that clear enough. And now she just sat there, looking sadder and sadder by the moment, only moving her legs so that people could climb over her.

He could see people's raised eyebrows at her presence. She was obviously a woman, even if she was wearing a rather odd-looking pair of blue trousers; the jacket she was wearing was bright purple with green dots all over it. She stood out like a lone white dove amongst a flock of common pigeons, but no one was saying anything. Even Enjolras had taken one look at her, asked if she could fire a gun and then carried on with his usual job of focusing on the task at hand.

Jean was well aware that he was distracted completely by her presence. He just wanted her to be safe. He knew that fighting would come soon and he had no idea if anyone on this barricade could make it through the night alive. What would happen to her if she died? She wasn't in the right time – anything could happen to her…

"Psst!"

Jean's head whirled around to find the source of the noise. He was perched rather precariously on the barricade itself and nearly fell off with how fast he moved.

A familiar, grimy face was peering at him. The fortune teller from what felt like years earlier was stood against the wall of the building, a cocky smile on her face. "Careful, there, _monsieur_," she said. "I wouldn't want you breaking your neck. That would defeat everything I've worked for."

As carefully as he could without falling, he scrambled down the barricade to stand very close to the woman. "Send her back," he ordered, his voice a hiss. "What were you thinking, allowing her to come here? It isn't safe!"

"Of course it's not safe," the woman said in a scoffing tone. "That's why she's here. And I can't just send her back, I've broken every rule by bringing her here, so I'm not putting my job on the line without giving her a final chance to do _her_ job."

"I am getting sick and tired of this," Jean said. "I don't want her to die."

"And you mustn't die," the woman shrugged. "That's why we're all _here_, Jean Prouvaire. It's why your paths have crossed with hers, to make sure _you_ don't die. It has led to extreme measures because you wouldn't listen to the girl when she asked you not to come here. If anything happens to her, it's really your fault."

His heart jolted at the thought. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"Do you remember where I live, _monsieur_?" the woman pushed off the wall.

"What?" he said, confused.

"The alleyway," the woman said. "Do you remember where that is?"

He thought about it, and nodded. "Of course, but…"

"Oh, good," the woman said, sounding pleased. "It would have been rather unfortunate if you'd forgotten. And do you know your way to Musichetta's home?"

"I…I had been there once," Jean said, after a few moments of hesitation.

"See, it's all coming together." The woman clapped her hands together. "I'll leave you now, Jean Prouvaire. It shouldn't be _too_ long before we see each other once again."

He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, the woman was gone.

III

With a small huff, Clementine crumpled the paper one last time in her fist and threw it away from her. It bounced across the dusty cobbles outside the café. Another sigh escaped her mouth as she drew her legs up against her chest, resting her head on her knees.

She felt at a complete loss, here in 1832. Jehan didn't even _want_ her there, and she had no idea what she was supposed to do. In addition to that, nothing was happening. They all had their guns ready and no one had fired a shot yet. She knew they were waiting for _something_, but no one had explained to her _what._

Her stomach was a ball of nerves. She wanted to talk to Jehan, but she also felt like she shouldn't. He hadn't been too pleased to see her, she knew that, because he was worried about her welfare. She understood that, because she was worried about his too, but it had been somewhat deflating to have him instantly tell her to leave – and to then sit there with the grumpiest look on her face that she had ever seen.

She closed her eyes. She couldn't think straight. She didn't know what the point of her being here was, but Margaux hadn't returned since abandoning her here. What was she supposed to do?

Suddenly, there was a lot of shouting, and then it went somewhat quiet; the next thing she knew, there was even more clamour. Frowning, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. Was the fighting about to begin? Her stomach rolled.

There were no gunshots from what she could hear, but she could see a middle-aged man being dragged towards her by some of Jehan's friends. She had barely the time to scramble out of the way as they hauled him through the café doors, and one of his friends still managed to catch her knee with his foot. Once they were past her, she allowed her body to relax and then peered through the door after them. Some sort of fight was ensuing. She watched as one of the men – she couldn't remember his name, but they had been introduced – hit the middle-aged man with what looked like a club.

A hand touched her shoulder. It was Jehan. "He was a spy," he murmured in her ear. He was crouched next to her. "Are you all right? Did any of them kick you?"

She shook her head, even though her knee throbbed a little.

There was a brief moment of quiet on the barricade as the 'spy' was trussed up in the café. But Clementine heard it – the sound of hundreds of feet marching in unison, somewhere nearby, far away but close enough to be heard. Jehan's hand tensed on her shoulder so much it was nearly hurt.

Clementine looked up into his face with wide eyes. His eyes stared back at her, and she could see the range of emotions playing out in them – fear, anticipation, worry.

"What is it?" she said, glancing over her shoulder back into the café. The men there seemed to hear the marching too and suddenly all moved forward at once, scrambling through the door. Jehan wrapped his arms around her to pull her out of the way.

"I want you to stay inside the café," he hissed in her ear. "_Please_, Clementine, stay inside here. It will be safer."

"What is happening?" she demanded, her stomach rolling. She thought she knew – no, she knew that she knew. The fighting was going to begin.

He kissed her, hard on her mouth. "Please, wait inside," he urged, before letting go of her. She watched as he accepted a revolver from one of his friends and then he was gone, scaling the barricade of furniture to stand with his friends.


	22. The First Attack

**_Chapter Twenty Two_**

**The First Attack**

Clementine knew what Jehan had told her to do was sensible, but she found that her legs would not move. It was like her feet had been nailed to the cobbles in her feet. All she could do was stare at Jehan, and stare at the revolver in his hand. No matter what she could never, ever picture him using it. It was too violent. He had always been so kind to her – his hands were gentle, his kisses tender, and he was _hers_, her Jehan. Surely there had to be some better way for he and his friends to make their point. Did it need to end in bloodshed?

Her stomach lurched at the thought. _Bloodshed_. Their blood being shed, specifically, and Jehan's.

She felt bile rise up her throat at the very thought of Jehan bleeding in any way at all. Her feet moved all of a sudden, stumbling forwards. Her mind was telling her to go back into the café, but her legs were moving of their own accord.

There was some shouting – the tall blond man who had hit the spy with the club – and then a response from someone else, someone she couldn't see.

"_FIRE_!" she heard, and that was when the world lit up with the deafening sounds of guns cracking through the night's air. She flung her hands up over her ears and found herself crouching, her heart hammering. There was so much _noise_ – the guns and the shouting of the soldiers and the screaming of those already wounded, and she could smell the gunpowder hanging in the air and clinging to the back of her throat, going straight to her stomach.

She was just rising from her crouch when it happened.

Some of the soldiers had climbed the barricade. That is what she noticed in the seconds it took her to rise. Soldiers were climbing the barricades, and they were sticking their guns over the top, and they were firing those guns. Jehan's friends were shooting them back, or hitting them with heavy objects. She couldn't see Jehan in the confusion. She was just looking at him – and just found him – when pain suddenly shot up her leg from her calf.

All of that happened in a matter of moments, and then her legs crumpled beneath her and she was in a heap on the cobblestones. She didn't think she was crying – or was she? She knew her leg hurt – her leg hurt a lot – and the ground was hard and cold and bumpy underneath her. She sat with her legs splayed out. She looked down, her head swimming. Her jeans were stained red. Red…

Everything faded away.

III

Jean's heart was pounding in his chest. The fighting was over – for now – thanks to Marius' quick thinking in grabbing a barrel of gunpowder. Jean's legs felt weak, almost like liquid, as he stumbled down from the barricade. He kept his gun tight in his hand, just in case the fighting started up again so soon.

He had walked two steps before he realised that someone was blocking his way. It was Bahorel, and his face was very serious.

"Jehan," he said, urgently, "Come on."

He grabbed Jean by the arm and began to move him – but Jean looked past him and saw what the emergency was.

Clementine was lying in a heap on the ground – and her trousers, those strange blue trousers – had patches of red all over them. She'd been hit by a bullet, clearly, and there was a flash of anger in him at first at the realisation that she hadn't gone inside the Musain as he'd asked her to.

But the flash of anger gave way to genuine fear, right down to his bones, and he was throwing himself to his knees by her side. She had her head resting on Courfeyrac's lap.

"Is she alive?" Jean demanded.

"Yes," Courfeyrac said, his voice terse. "It hit her in the shin…"

"Where is Joly?" Jean looked around wildly for their friend.

"Look around you – many men have been shot, many with wounds more dangerous than this one," Courfeyrac said. "He's helping everyone."

"But she's _bleeding_," Jean said, pressing his hands over the patch on her leg where the blood seemed to be darkest.

"Yes, I know." Courfeyrac glanced around. "Maybe – maybe you should leave."

"Leave?" Jean echoed. "I can't –"

"Yes, you can," Courfeyrac said, and Jean felt Bahorel's hand clap heavily on his shoulder. "You need to take her somewhere where she can be treated. This is _not_ the place for Clementine right now, and you know it." He spoke in low, calm tones. "Take her, and stay with her."

"But I'm needed _here_," Jean spat, torn between the two options.

"She needs you too," Courfeyrac said.

All of a sudden, Jean's mind was filled. Filled with memories from his dreams, dreams before he met Clementine – those dreams of Clementine, walking hand in hand with that man who could have been Jean's twin – of her laughing with him, hugging him, kissing him. In all of those dreams, she was so happy, her face smiling, bright and open. Now she lay there, her face pale and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, _bleeding_…

If he got her out of here, she could live. And she could go on and _be_ that happy Clementine he dreamed of. That's what he wanted. That was _all_ he wanted for her.

He raised his eyes from Clementine's white, ashen face to meet Courfeyrac's understanding gaze. "No one would blame you," Courfeyrac murmured, and Jean's mind was set.

"How do I leave," he asked, as Courfeyrac inched backwards. He put his hands beneath Clementine's head so that her skull would not collide harshly with the stone ground beneath her.

"Come with me," Courfeyrac said, and with Bahorel's help, Jean scooped Clementine into his arms. He winced internally at the small noise of pain she made when he jostled her leg.

Courfeyrac showed him to a gap near the edges of the barricade. "Be careful how you go," Courfeyrac said. "There will be guardsmen everywhere, and if they think you're involved…" He trailed off, because both of them knew what that would mean.

"Thank you," Jean said. "I'll be back as soon as I can and – and be safe."

Before he could say anything more, Courfeyrac was giving him an awkward, one-armed hug. "But if you're not, Jean Prouvaire, it was an honour to have called you my friend," he said fiercely in his ear. "And I hope that Clementine is all right."

Jean blinked rapidly as his friend pulled away from him, and then turned around to squeeze through the gap and leave the barricade behind.


	23. The Guilt of a Survivor

**_Chapter Twenty Three_**

**The Guilt of a Survivor**

Jean hadn't even noticed where his feet were taking him until he was stood in the dark, cramped alleyway that housed the beggar woman's hovel.

He didn't hesitate outside the damaged, brittle door before banging on it as hard as he could. It opened a heartbeat later and the woman stood, framed in the doorway.

"I knew it wouldn't be long," she sighed, standing aside so he could carry Clementine inside.

The crate that he had sat on was no longer there, and neither was the rickety wooden chair. There was a candle burning in the corner, and a couple of dark blue bottles sat beside it.

The woman shut the door behind them. "Put her down," she ordered, and despite his better judgement, Jean lowered Clementine's body onto the dusty, dirty floor.

The woman knelt by her side. He was alarmed when the woman reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a long, thin knife. He opened his mouth to protest as she began to cut the leg of Clementine's trousers away from her leg.

"Pass me those bottles," she ordered, dropping the blood-soaked rag onto the ground next to Clementine. He edged around them, grabbing the bottles and thrusting them at the woman. By the dim light of the candle, he could see blood coating his palms, sticky and making him feel sick to the bottom of his stomach.

"Can you save her?" he asked.

"Oh, calm down, boy," the woman said, pulling the cork out of the smaller of the two bottles and pouring its contents into the bloody hole in Clementine's leg. "This isn't life-threatening at the minute, and I've got enough magic on my side to make sure she won't lose a leg. Just sit tight and let me work. Then you can take her to somewhere safe. I believe those girls are nearby?"

He sank to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. "Do you mean Musichetta?"

"Actually, I referred to the other one, Hélène," the woman responded, taking the cork out of the other bottle and allowing a couple of drops to dribble out onto Clementine's leg. She rubbed her hands together and placed them over the wound.

"Hélène…Yes…They're nearby," Jean agreed. "I could take her there…it is closer than my house…then I can go back –"

"Hmm." The woman clucked her tongue. He looked at her hands, saw the blood seeping from underneath her palms. He felt like vomiting. "Let's just see how things go, shall we?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Never you mind," the woman said. "You just try and get some sleep. I'll wake you when I'm done."

III

Clementine's head felt like it was filled with cotton wool, and her tongue felt too big for her mouth. She could feel her leg throbbing and aching and she clawed in the recesses of her brain for the memory of what happened. She could…She could remember gunfire and then a horrible, sickening pain in her leg but after that, it was all a blur.

She found she couldn't open her eyes, but she could just about hear voices. A man – instantly familiar to her as Jehan – and then a woman's voice, but the woman's voice, she couldn't recognise at all. They sounded like they were nearby, though, and Jehan sounded…He sounded upset. More than that, actually; it sounded like he was speaking through sobs.

She frowned internally, wanting to open her eyes and scramble out of bed to comfort him. What had him so upset? Was it her being injured? _Don't be silly_, she wanted to tell him, _I'll be fine_…

"Courfeyrac _knew_ I wasn't coming back," Jehan was mumbling in a very thick voice. Maybe his tongue was too big for his mouth as well. "He knew I wasn't…He said it was an honour to know me but how could it be? I _abandoned_ them –"

"No, no, no," the woman was replying in a soft, soothing voice. "You didn't. Jean, you can't think like that. He told you to go because he _knew_ it was what was best…"

"But they're _dead_," Jehan said. "They're all dead!"

"Yes, they are, but Clementine isn't." The woman's voice was almost desperate in its effort to comfort the devastated man. "Which was why you _left_. Jean, you can't…You can't blame yourself…"

"I should never have left," Jehan murmured.

"If you hadn't left, Clementine might have died," the woman whispered.

"And that's my fault, too," Jehan said, letting out a hollow, humourless laugh. "She should never have been there. She's too young, she has her whole life ahead of her, and _I_ nearly took that from her – she could have _died_ and it would have been my fault, she was only there because of me –"

"Your actions _saved_ her," the woman said sharply. "_You_ saved her. You have made sure that she lives, and she _can_ have the long life ahead of her…with you," she added, in a quieter voice. "Jean, _none of your friends_ would begrudge you that."

Clementine felt herself drifting off to sleep once more.

III

When she woke next, she found she could open her eyes. She was wearing a white nightdress, and Jehan was by her bedside, in fresh clothes. But there was something noticeably different about him – the bags beneath his eyes, the haunted expression on his face, the sag of his shoulders.

She managed to put a face to the voice she heard when she was sleeping. It was a woman named Hélène. She had dark brown corkscrew curls, a pleasant, open face, and a kindly manner. She brought Clementine food – a simple stew and some slightly stale bread – and left her alone with Jehan.

"What happened?" Clementine asked, setting the tray aside.

Jehan shrugged. "I took you to the fortune teller," he said, in a dull voice. "She treated your wound with…I don't know what with. It's healing fast, though. Then she told me to take you here, because it was close by. Hélène agreed to help us. You're in her house now."

"I gathered as much." Clementine hesitated. Jehan's eyes were very red and damp, so she knew he'd been crying. "What…What else has happened?"

"The barricade fell," he said. "I couldn't get back there in time. They're all dead. All my friends." His voice broke on the last word and he covered his face with his hands. "I wasn't there," he said.

Clementine moved, ignoring the pain in her leg. She managed to put her hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away from the contact.

"Eat," he commanded, getting to his feet. "I'll…I need…"

He fled the room. Her heart sank as she watched him leave. She didn't know what to _do_. What did you say to someone who had just lost all of his friends?

She tried not to think too hard about it and busied herself with eating the stew. The stew was a bit bland, the meat chewy, but it went down easy enough considering she was only eating to keep her mind occupied.

Still, her mind wandered. She couldn't help but think – if she hadn't been there, then Jehan wouldn't have left his friends – he wouldn't be feeling so guilty…

"No, but he would be dead," Hélène said.

Clementine jumped and dropped the lump of bread she'd been holding into her stew. She hadn't realised that Hélène had entered, or that she had apparently spoken out loud.

"I cannot be dealing with too much guilt," Hélène continued, "So don't go blaming yourself. You were there because you…because you love him, yes?"

Clementine nodded, not sure what else to say.

"And he saved you because he…he loved _you_," Hélène continued.

"I just don't want him feeling guilty," Clementine said.

"Unfortunately, he will do." Hélène sighed and sank into the chair that Jehan had vacated. "It will never completely go away."

Clementine chewed on the bread she rescued from the stew. Once she had swallowed, she said, "I don't really know how to deal with it. I've never…I mean, my grandparents died before I was born – I've never _lost_ anyone…"

"I have," Hélène said, slowly. "And I understand what he's going through. My family died in a fire when I was a girl. I was out, being naughty as usual, and I survived. The guilt has never really left me – the idea I should have been there, died with them. I had to leave, in the end. There's only so many times your own aunt can stare at you as if you're the devil himself because you survived a fire that killed the rest of your family."

Clementine lowered her head. "So he won't…he won't stop feeling guilty?"

"I think it will get easier," Hélène corrected. "Never go away completely, but he will, eventually, come to terms with it. In his own way."

Clementine pushed her food away from her. "I don't feel hungry," she muttered.

Hélène gave her a sad look. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Clementine wasn't sure what she was apologising for, but she felt grateful for it nonetheless.

III

She fell asleep not long after, her leg still aching and her body exhausted.

When she woke up, she was no longer in Hélène's bed, but back in her own room at university, with only the ghost of a scar on her shin to remind her she was ever on the barricade in 1832.


	24. The Truth

**_Chapter Twenty Four_**

**The Truth**

For a few moments, all she could do was sit in the bed. She'd pulled her pyjama pants up around her knee to stare at her shin, but there was only a silvery white circle there where the wound had once been. It didn't even _look_ like any gunshot wound she'd seen, and it was almost hard to remember how much it had hurt.

Her chest felt hollow, and so did her stomach.

She swung her legs out of bed, her eyes darting around the room. How had she even got back here? How was she in her pyjamas? She shook her head, like a dog trying to shake water from his fur.

She stood on shaking legs. She remembered leaving the book of Aeschylus plays on her desk, wedged between a pile of textbooks and one of her notebooks.

But it wasn't there. There was only an empty space where it should have been.

Frantically, she searched her bag, but couldn't find it in there, either; she tore apart her desk, searched all the drawers, even looked in her wardrobe and in her sink. She found herself barrelling through the flat, searching the kitchen and the toilet and even the shower. She couldn't find the book anywhere.

She hadn't realised how loud she was being until she found Noémi, Pauline, Sophie and Élodie in her doorway, all looking incredibly sleepy. "Whilst I'm glad you're _alive_, Clementine, do you really need to wake us up at six o'clock in the morning _again_?" Pauline drawled.

"Again?" Clementine put her hands to her head. "What do you mean, again?"

"Yesterday morning," Noémi said. "There was a loud banging noise outside and we found you collapsed outside…"

"You're lucky we didn't call an ambulance," Sophie said. "Were you on drugs or something? Because that's why we didn't."

"You…You put me to bed," Clementine said. Her hands were shaking. "Did – did any of you find my book?"

They were all silent, and looked at each other. "What book?" Élodie said.

"My book of Aeschylus plays," Clementine said.

"Wow, what the hell did you take last night?" Sophie wrinkled her nose. "Whatever it was, I'd like to try some." She wandered off down the corridor, yawning.

"You leant it to me last week," Noémi said, slowly. "I was writing that essay and you said I could use it. I didn't realise you wanted it back so badly…" She turned around and disappeared into her room.

Pauline touched Clementine's arm. "I'm glad you're all right," she said. "We'd all agreed if you weren't awake this morning we'd call someone."

"Thanks," Clementine muttered, wondering why on earth she would have leant Jehan's book to _Noémi_. It was her book and it was _old_ and _private_…

Noémi returned, holding a book in her hand. "Is this it?"

It wasn't it. This book was a fairly new paperback.

"No," she said, pressing her hand to her forehead. "No, that's not it. I mean my _old one_ – you know – brown leather – falling apart? _Really_ old?"

The three girls remaining in her doorway exchanged glances. "I don't remember you having a book like that," Noémi said, slowly.

"Yes, yes you do," Clementine snapped. "You used to hide it! Because you didn't like it, you thought I was obsessed and that it was unhealthy –"

"Unhealthy," Pauline echoed. "Yeah, I'm definitely seeing that."

"Maybe we should call an ambulance," Élodie whispered.

Clementine backed away from them. She grabbed her boots from where she'd flung them whilst searching her wardrobe and shoved them on her feet. "I have to go," she said.

"Clementine, it's _six in the morning_," Noémi said, exasperated. "Where could you possibly be going?"

"The fortune teller's!" Clementine threw over her shoulder, pushing past them and darting down the corridor.

None of them stopped her.

III

Although the sign on the door said it was closed, the fortune teller's door was unlocked. She went straight through to the back, where she found Margaux sat at the polished table, elbows on the surface and fingers linked together. She wore white, today, and diamonds glittered at her throat.

"You're in your pyjamas," Margaux observed.

Clementine flung herself into the chair opposite her. "Did it work?" she asked. "Did he survive?"

A few heartbeats passed, and then Margaux bowed her head. "He did. He lived."

Clementine let out a sigh of relief. "That's why I couldn't find the book, isn't it?" she said. "Because he lived?"

Margaux shrugged. "If you like."

"So, what now?" Clementine said, feeling excited. "Will he come to live here, with me, or…?"

Margaux raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

Clementine frowned. "How will we be _together_?"

"Together?" Margaux echoed. "You won't."

Clementine felt like her stomach had dropped out of her body. "I – _what_? But – he's – he's _the one_, that's what we agreed!"

"No, _you_ said he was the one," Margaux said. "I said that the matter concerned you _finding_ the one and that making you happy. Now, you haven't _found_ the one yet, but –"

"What do you mean?" Clementine's face felt very hot and she felt like slapping Margaux across the face. "What do you mean, I haven't _found the one_? Jehan -!"

"Isn't the one for you," Margaux said. "He never was. I know you love him and everything, but he's not the man for you and he never has been."

"So why would you let me think that?" She was so furious she was finding it hard to speak. "How – why? I don't…"

"You needed Jean Prouvaire to survive so you could be happy," Margaux said.

"Yes, _with him_," Clementine spat.

"No, not with him," Margaux said calmly. "Not with him. If Jean Prouvaire died, he never marries and never has children, and in turn, you never meet his great-great…I can't be bothered counting them all now, but let's just say, you never meet his great-grandson."

"His – his _grandson_?" Clementine blinked. "What do you _mean_?"

"Oh, Clementine, I can't spell it out any clearer," Margaux sighed with a roll of her eyes. "You will be happy when you meet the love of your life who just so happens to be Jean Prouvaire's descendant. Now, there was a blip, a mistake in fate's working, that meant that Jean Prouvaire died on the barricades. That shouldn't have happened, as you know. But by involving _you_ in the situation, Jean Prouvaire was not there to be captured and executed, and went on to marry and have lots of babies with his wife, lived to be old and died happy, and now you, in 2013, are going to meet his descendant, his great-grandson, who will make you just as happy. I can't tell you if lots of babies will be involved, because that wouldn't be fair, but…" She winked at Clementine. "There might just be!"

Clementine stared down at the tabletop. She pressed her hands to her face. "This can't be true."

There were a few moments of silence, and then she said, "I _am_ sorry, Clementine."

Clementine whipped her head up. "What are you apologising for, in particular?" she snarled. "Letting me think he was the one, or letting me fall in love with him?"

"Both," Margaux said. "But you have to understand. It was necessary. It had to be done, to make sure that fate –"

Before she could say anything else, Clementine had reached across the table and struck Margaux across the face. Then she jumped to her feet and ran out of the building.

**A/N: I'm sorry! I know a lot of you will absolutely hate me for this but when I started coming up with ideas for this story this was one that came up immediately and refused to go away. I hate myself a little bit, so it's fine. Only two more chapters to go.**


	25. The Last Dream

**_Chapter Twenty Five_**

**The Last Dream**

Clementine cried alone in her room for the rest of the day, wishing she had Jehan's book to somehow comfort her. She finally fell into a fitful sleep not long after midnight after crying herself empty.

She somehow was not surprised to find herself in Jehan's bedroom, sat on the foot of his bed. Jehan was sat cross-legged behind her, staring into space. He wasn't even _looking_ at her.

She twisted her body and moved towards him. "Jehan?" she said.

He blinked at her. "I'm going to lose you too," he said. "I saw the fortune teller today. She explained."

Clementine bit her lip. Her eyes felt hot again.

"It can't be true," she said. "It can't be. I refuse – I refuse to believe it." She cupped his face in her hands. "It can't be true, can it?"

He looked down at her. There was some life in his eyes, she realised, which was an improvement on last time.

"I don't see how it can be false," he murmured. "So you're going to marry my…"

"Don't say it," Clementine said, fiercely.

"Don't saying it won't make it not true," Jehan replied, but he pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "What a mess we're in."

"It's not a mess," Clementine said, and the tears spilled over. "That's what _you_ told me. The fates found a way to let us meet – surely they'll find a way for us to stay together!"

"But we're not _supposed_ to be together," Jehan said. "I'm supposed to marry someone else, and you…" He closed his eyes. "I've seen him. He looks just like me, but his hair is a bit different. He makes you happy." He let out a low, bitter laugh. "I suppose that was the trick, really. They let me dream of you at your happiest, so I would want to make sure you lived."

"Those dreams don't mean anything," Clementine said. "Do you know why? I'm not going back there – I'm going to stay here, with you, and we're going to be happy."

"But I've seen you – I've seen how happy he makes you, my grandson. I think you're happier with him than you would be with me," he said, quietly.

"Don't say that," Clementine said. "How could you say that?"

"Because I'm broken," Jehan said. "What happened on the barricades – it's changed me. And you – you're still young and have your whole life ahead of you. You have freedom in your time. You're at university, you can speak Greek and Latin, and you want to become a teacher. You've told me this. You can't achieve _any_ of that here. It's not possible."

"But…"

"You wouldn't be happy if you can't have any of that," Jehan said. "And that man – my grandson – he'll support you through it."

"You could come to live with me," Clementine said, desperately.

"Would I be happy there, though?" Jehan wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly. "Would I be able to just fit in? Because I don't think I would. It'd be too complicated."

"You can't just give up!" Clementine shouted, wriggling in his arms. "You can't just _give up_! What happened to love conquers all?"

He pressed a kiss to the top of Clementine's head and held his mouth there. "I still believe that."

"So why are you giving up?" she whispered.

"I'm not," Jehan objected. "I'm just…I'm just trying to look at this in the best way possible. Clementine, _we're not meant to be together_."

"No, we are," Clementine said, pulling away from him. "We are. And we will be. You know why? Because I am going back to my own time and I am going to find that fortune teller and I am going to _make her_ let us be together. I won't give up!"

Jehan smiled at her. "And I hope…I hope you manage it," he murmured. "I really do."

She lifted her head up and their lips somehow met. But the kissing was fleeting and didn't last long enough, because when she opened her eyes, she was back in her room once more.

III

The next morning, she felt a lot calmer. She knew what she had to do. She had to go and find the fortune teller, and persuade her to change things so that she and Jehan could be together.

She woke early, showered, and dressed. She even took the time to eat some breakfast before leaving the flat. She followed the now familiar route to Margaux's shop, aware that her steps were mechanical. She was barely thinking about what she was doing, until she was stood outside the shop.

She stared up at it. It looked the same, but…different. Something was off about it. Then she realised – the sign, proclaiming it to be a fortune teller's, was gone, and there was no Open sign on the door, or a Closed one.

Clementine stepped up to the door and tried the handle. The door was locked fast. There was barely any give in it at all. It wouldn't budge.

She stepped back, confused. She moved forwards, battering the door with her fists until her hands ached and she was sure it would probably have come up in bruises by tomorrow.

"Please," she whispered, stopping and leaning her forehead against the door. "Please, just open up."

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, pressed against the door. When she pulled away, her face was damp.

"Open up," she said, looking up at the shop.

But she knew that the door wasn't going to open. She knew it wasn't going to open ever again. She knew that Margaux was long gone, and she knew she wouldn't see her again.

She sat on the bench opposite for a few more minutes, staring at the shop. What was she supposed to do now, she thought to herself. The ghost of Jehan's last kiss still upon her mouth – she could still feel the warmth of his body against hers, how comfortable it felt to be in the circle of his arms, and how gentle his touch was.

She closed her eyes, trying to make it feel real again.


	26. The Beginning

**_Chapter Twenty Six_**

**The Beginning**

Months went by.

For a while, she often visited the fortune teller's shop, but Margaux never returned. She'd never really thought she would, but she could always hope.

She didn't dream of Jehan again – either visiting him, or even dreaming of him. After a while, she began to find it hard to imagine his face sometimes, and on days like that she didn't feel like doing much apart from sitting there and wallowing.

But she knew that wouldn't do her any good, so she threw herself into her university work. She remembered Jehan's words to her, about her wanting her degree and so on, and that gave her the motivation to study even harder.

Clementine was given the option of completing her degree in France. She decided to take the offer. She found that France suited her, and she managed to find a house to rent with Noémi and Élodie. She wasn't too sorry that Pauline and Sophie went to live elsewhere, but she still considered them to be friends.

She decided to stay in France over the summer, save one week she went back to England to see her family. Noémi and Élodie had gone back to their respective homes for the summer, so she lived in the house by herself. It was lonely at times, and there were occasions when it gave her too much time to think, but she was managing to get by.

She used the time to indulge herself in seeing tourist attractions she'd not taken the time to see when she was studying. It became a pleasant past time, and was almost a suitable distraction from the fact she was never going to see Jehan again.

That was something she had managed to come to terms with. As much as she _wanted_ to see him, she knew deep down that it wasn't going to happen, no matter how much she wished for it.

But there were nights when all she could think about was kissing him and hugging him and their funny little conversations, and then all she could think about was that _book_ and his poems, the words still etched firmly into her brain, and then she thought about the sounds of gunfire and the brightness lighting up the sky and searing pain in her shin…

She wondered how he was getting by. Had he missed her? He was dead by now, of course, but…She couldn't help but wonder if he thought about her again. He must have done, she told herself, because he loved her too. But the niggling little voice at the back of her head tried telling her he had probably forgotten about her.

On one of her walks around town, she found a rather familiar looking café. It was still called the Musain, to her sad amusement, even though it now looked brand spanking new and shiny and clean. She stared at it for a while, turning in a small circle to look around. She could still see the barricade if she squinted hard enough and remember how the cobbles felt beneath her back as she lay there bleeding. She could almost see Jehan as well, running towards her, asking her to leave.

Putting all that aside, she opened the door to the café and went inside.

She ordered herself a coffee and a pastry, and sat by the window, watching the world go by. No matter how hard her imagination tried, none of the faces that walked past were Jehan or his friends.

But then – then she saw someone. A man. He looked just like Jehan, but his hair was a little shorter around the sides, curlier on top. He wore a tight-fitting green T-shirt, grey skinny jeans, and scuffed, dirty, white Converse shoes. There were bracelets around his wrists and a backpack on his shoulders.

He was walking up to the café, she realised, and she leaned over the table to watch his progress as closely as she could.

Then he was inside the café, strolling through the tables to the counter. He ordered, and then turned to face the room, leaning against the counter as he waited for his order to be prepared.

He caught her eye. She couldn't help but stare. He was the spitting image of Jehan.

He smiled at her, a slow, lazy kind of smile. It wasn't Jehan's smile at all, but somehow, it was still almost familiar.

He turned around again to accept his order of a hot drink, and then he was weaving through the tables towards her. He dropped down into the chair opposite her without asking.

"_Bonjour_," he said. "My name is Alex. You?"

"Clementine," she said, slowly. "It's generally considered polite to ask a stranger if you can sit with them before sitting down."

"We don't have to be strangers," Alex said, sipping at his drink. "Your accent is funny. Where are you from?"

"England, and what kind of chat up line is _that_?"

He snorted. "One I hoped would work. Did it?"

She sniffed. "Buy me a chocolate brownie and we'll see," she said, secretly pleased to be able to talk to him.

He did buy her a brownie, and then they talked. She found out he was at university, too, studying Fine Art, and that he was born and raised in Paris. It turned out he could speak a little English, but not much. He was delighted to hear that she was studying Classics.

"I almost studied it myself," he explained. "But I'm more an art person. I taught myself Latin, though, and I took classes in Greek when I was a teenager. See –"

He rooted in his rucksack and pulled out a book. She started. It was Jehan's book – it looked just as battered as she remembered it.

She looked up at him. "That's very old," she said.

"Yeah, it's my grandfather's," Alex said, running a reverent hand over its surface. "Well, kind of. It's been in the family for over a century. My great-great – you know, lots of greats – grandfather owned it originally. He was a poet." He pushed the book towards her. "It's Aeschylus' plays. It's what got me into it. We've always kept the book in the family but no one's ever tried reading it until I got my hands on it. I always carry it around. It's like a lucky mascot, I suppose."

She touched it, smoothing her hands over the surface. "Was he happy, your grandfather?" she asked. "The one who owned it first?"

Alex looked a little surprised, but he nodded. "Yeah, I think he was. Jean Prouvaire, his name was. His family wasn't from Paris but when he married he stayed here."

"What was his wife's name?" Clementine knew she sounded odd, but she couldn't help but ask.

"Hélène," Alex said. Clementine remembered curly hair, kindness and soft discussion of survivor's guilt, and smiled.

"Good," she whispered.

Alex raised his eyebrows. "You know, it's funny," he said. "Your name is Clementine, yes?"

She nodded. He took the book off her, and flicked to the back of it. "Jean Prouvaire wrote in this all the time," Alex said. "Poems and notes and everything else you can think of. And then, there's this…"

He pointed to a note scrawled on the very last plain page. It had never been there before, so it must have been written after the last dream.

_To my dearest Clementine,_

_I'm assuming it did not work, whatever it was you tried to do. I am sorry for that. I do love you, and I think I always will; but I also believe that we were not meant to last forever._

_But I will not let the sadness I feel for our parting colour what short time we did have together. I enjoyed everything about our time together and I will always, always, always remember it fondly. You were a good thing in my life, Clementine. One of the best things, and I will never forget you._

_Everything we went through together was so you could be happy, and so I could be happy. I will love you forever for giving me a second chance to live. Live your life for me and live it well. Enjoy yourself. Become a teacher as you want to be. Be happy. Love him. _

_I love you, Clementine. Do not forget me._

_With all my heart,_

_Jehan Prouvaire_

She felt tears in her eyes, and dashed them away with her fingertips. "That's…that's so…"

"We don't know who she is," Alex said. "And we don't know what they went through together." He studied her closely. "It's a sweet letter," he murmured, and then, in a louder voice, he asked, "Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?"

She stared at the open book beneath her hands and then looked up into his face.

_Be happy. Love him._

"I'd love to," she said, and closed the book.

**A/N: Well, it's done. Thank you ****_so_**** much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story, and to everyone who left a review!**

**I'm probably going to do an alternative ending to this at some point. It will be posted as a separate story if I do. I'm not sure when it'll be done because I need to work out the details first. Look out for it though if you're interested :)**

**Thanks again!**


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